


Utero Aqua

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [10]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Hawke is an asshole but he loves Fenris very much, M/M, Not the main ship, Tevene is a whole language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:40:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28317627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: "It's my sister. I didn't tell you, but I followed up on Hadriana's information. Everything she said was true." – Fenris, 9:36 DragonOr, what might have happened if Danarius had put a little planning into the events of 'Alone.'
Relationships: Fenris & Isabela (Dragon Age), Fenris/Male Hawke, Male Hawke & Isabela (Dragon Age), Male Hawke & Serendipity (Dragon Age)
Series: From the Ashes [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/176042
Comments: 61
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** For [taranoire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire), who listens to all my WIP angst and whose phenomenal writing inspired much of this fic. If you're moved to read one other Fenris fic this year, please check out her perfect work, [Libertatem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13943751), which makes up my personal pre-Kirkwall canon for Fenris.
> 
> Obviously, this is part of a series. There are passing references to events in other installments, but I'm confident this can stand on its own. This is set slightly earlier than canon, during the last quarter of 9:36 Dragon. This story can't happen in winter and if it takes place in the spring, Fenris and Hawke have like five minutes together before Kirkwall blows up. I wanted to give them a little more time.
> 
> If anyone needs a recap of the events in-game, take a gander at this little [video edit](https://youtu.be/7qlMlJxpkpM) I made.
> 
> Tevene translations are in the end-notes.

~ Free Marches, City of Kirkwall, Lowtown, 8 p.m. Tuesday, 7th of Harvestmere, 9:36 Dragon ~

The doors of the Hanged Man loomed before him. Fenris paused, hand on the wood. His heart beat in his throat. He’d crossed this threshold a thousand times, yet this felt like wading onto boggy ground.

Hawke’s bulk pressed in behind him. A large, gloved hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing gently. Another settled beside his on the door and pushed it open.

“I’m told it's rude to keep a lady waiting, Wolf. I’m right here. I won’t leave your side unless you ask.”

Forceful as ever, but for once, Fenris could appreciate the nudge.

He nodded and stepped inside, Hawke on his heels.

He’d been worried that he wouldn’t know his own sister if he saw her, but once the soles of his boots touched the tavern floor, she was impossible to miss.

A lone elven woman sat in the centre of the room, staring at the stains on the wood as Aden from the shipyard leaned against her table. Tomwise and Bonnie Lem occupied the table opposite, blatantly staring. There were worse places in Kirkwall to be a foreigner, an elf and a woman of even moderate appeal, but Fenris would hardly call the Hanged Man a refuge. The assembled scoundrels weren’t the type to inflict suffering on the vulnerable for sport, but neither would they hesitate to exploit an advantage.

From the bar, tankards rose in a toast to acknowledge the Champion in their midst, but Hawke paid them no mind.

“Piss off, Aden!” he snarled, sending the other human scrambling. Tomwise and Bonnie Lem turned back to their drinks.

Fenris’ eyes locked with the woman’s, green as his own, and the commotion of the tavern faded from his notice.

Her hair was the colour of burnished copper, braided and looped around her face in a simpler version of a style he’d worn himself, when he’d been a different man, living a different life. Her clothes were that of Imperial _Liberati_ , layers of linen with stitching around the edges for colour. A delicate sylvan motif coiled around one eye – the faux _Vallaslin_ some Magisters had etched into the faces of their slaves. A nod to the danger and mystique of the Dalish, without the risk and expense of authenticity.

He felt suddenly very aware of his own state of dress, from the gold in his ears – a gift from Hawke – to his silk-lined coat, and boots that even in the Free Marches, elves were hesitant to wear.

What would she make of him?

“ _A-avana,_ ” he stammered. “Varania?”

She rose from her seat, eyes traversing his form. “ _Is est vere ipsum_.”

Her tone struck him as odd, almost… disappointed?

As he stared at her, a series of images stirred, of a walled garden, a pond with golden fish and a girl with sunset hair, reaching for him. She smiled and—

“ _Memores vestri sum_ ,” he told her. “We were children together. We played in our master’s courtyard while Mother worked. You called me—”

“Leto,” she finished. “That is your name.”

Her eyes flicked past his shoulder and Fenris remembered who he’d brought with him.

“Er, this is my friend _,_ ” he said, gesturing to the human. “He is calledHawke. He is the protector of this city,” he added, unsure if it was a concept she would grasp. The Magisters in the Senate were the closest equivalent the Imperium allowed, and such politics meant little to those of any class below _Laetan_.

He turned to Hawke. “This is Varania. My sister,” he said in the tongue of Andraste.

“Evening, Miss,” the other man greeted, offering a bow.

Varania stared, eyes wide in horror. Fenris glanced back at Hawke, trying to understand what she saw.

There was no denying that he was an imposing man. He towered above the others in the tavern with a broadness of shoulder and obvious brawn, courtesy of the Chasind blood that ran thick in his veins. Wilder looks often gave Free Marchers pause, but the Korcari tribes and their reputation as brutes who ate the hearts of their fallen, were known to few beyond the Vimmark.

Hawke’s dark hair had been tied back for the occasions and Fenris knew he’d shaved that morning, despite the shadow of stubble darkening his jaw. His sword hung from his hip, but he’d forgone armour in favour of the black velvet and red sash of his ancestral finery.

He wasn’t scowling and his greeting had been pleasant.

In short, this was as non-threatening as the Champion of Kirkwall was able to be.

Hawke looked to him, uncertainty in his eyes.

“Um, _ipse autem salvus,_ ” Fenris explained, hoping the reassurance would ease her.

She seemed to steel herself. Her features smoothed, yet she did not smile. Her gaze dropped to the table. “ _Quod est honoris, Domine,_ ” she recited, dipping her stance. Her movements were awkward, slightly wooden. In Tevinter, she would be required to kneel, or be punished. Fenris knew the struggle of resisting that impulse.

“Ah, my second-favourite apostate and his little wolf,” a feminine voice intruded. “How are you, lads? Been a while. Was beginning to think Meredith finally snapped and had you locked in the Gallows.”

Fenris’ heart sank a little as he turned to find Isabela draping herself around Hawke.

He _was_ scowling now. “Maker’s breath, must you sneak up on a man?”

“I didn’t sneak,” she pouted. “I waved and everything, but you ignored me.” The pirate’s notice fell on Varania and Fenris felt the shift in mood. Her voice dropped to a purr. “And I can see why.” She released Hawke and leaned on the table, myriad bracelets tinkling as she swept a hand through her hair. “So, is this pretty thing the one you broke my heart for, Fenris? Do introduce us.”

“I… uh, she’s not—”

“She’s his sister,” Hawke supplied.

Isabela straightened, mouth slack with surprise. “His what?! Since when? Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Nobody did. It’s his personal affair.”

“You obviously knew.”

Hawke arched a brow. “Maybe because I have yet to flirt with the poor woman.”

“Yes, well. There’s a difference between discretion and ineptitude, Hawke.” She winked, grinning.

Hawke’s reply was a raised middle finger.

Isabela chuckled, unrepentant. Her smile softened as she turned back to Varania. “Hello, Kitten. Name’s Isabela, what’s yours?”

“Her name is Varania and she’s recently arrived from Tevinter. She doesn’t speak Common,” Fenris interjected before the silence could strain. “Maybe we should—”

“Oh! Hold on, hold on. Let me try.” Isabela cleared her throat. “ _Be-ne-fa-ris_ ,” she bid farewell, carefully enunciating each syllable. “ _E-go. Mi-les. I-sa-be-la._ ”

“She can hear just— Oh, fine!” Fenris rolled his eyes, though he was fighting a smile. “ _Apologia,_ ” he said to his sister. “These are my friends. They wish to welcome you.”

Varania watched him, expression blank. Her gaze averted as she nodded. “ _Ita_ , Leto,” she said, tucking a spiralling curl behind her ear. “I am… pleased to be here.”

Within short order, Varric had joined them and trooped them all up the stairs to his suite. Wine was poured as opposed to the usual whisky, and food was brought. His sister was, of course, the focus of attention. Fenris strove to keep her included in the conversation, but it proved an arduous task.

Questions about her journey were met with monosyllabic replies. Nothing was volunteered, not about her work as a tailor, her thoughts on the food, or even her opinion on the weather in Kirkwall versus Minrathous. There were so many things Fenris longed to ask. About their mother, about the scraps of knowledge he’d pieced together, leading back to a frontier estate in Seheron. Yet, with such shuttered responses to the most banal of subjects, he didn’t dare broach anything substantial.

His friends noticed. Of course they did. Glances passed between Varric and Hawke. Even Isabela’s lips pursed at a particularly awkward lull, but such moments were fleeting. Varric was nothing if not adept at repartee and with the others’ teasing commentary thrown in, the air of conviviality was genuine.

The night wore on and the Hendyrs arrived. Introducing the Captain of the Guard and her husband garnered the same round-eyed dismay shown to Hawke, and Fenris wondered at Varania’s experience with humans in authority.

If his own prior to Kirkwall was any measure, he certainly couldn’t fault her.

Moreover, she was _Liberati_ , entitled to travel as she wished, but only those once bound could be freed.

For a slave to cross the border into Thedas, was to become _fugitivi._ Slaves did not escape. They committed theft, the penalty for which was displayed in varying states of decay on spikes along the walls of every Imperial city.

Was it really any wonder she was skittish?

He’d noticed her stilling, counting on her fingers as the bell tower in the market tolled the hour, nine and then ten, before settling in her seat, tearing off a crust of bread or sipping her wine. It seemed an odd compulsion, but asking would draw attention and Fenris had no desire to embarrass her.

It was when the first chime of the eleventh hour rang, that the pattern altered.

“… You know, you still owe me five sovereigns, Elf,” Varric was saying, wiping a tear of laughter from his eye after the absurd conclusion to Isabela’s latest yarn.

Fenris grinned as he leaned back, arms crossed. “I’m good for it,” he shrugged.

“Meaning you’ll borrow it from Hawke, probably,” Varric assumed, glancing meaningfully at the mage. “Say, does our guest play? I can ask Athenril and the boys from the Rose to join Thursday’s game. Would make for a less rugged crowd, if maybe she—”

With the noise from the common room at a crescendo, the sound of the bell was faint, barely audible. Varania straightened in her chair and pushed her plate away.

“Leto!” she said, speaking over Varric.

It was as much enthusiasm as she’d shown all evening. Silence descended around the table as all eyes turned to her. Fenris expected her to wilt beneath the scrutiny, but she did not vacillate.

“ _In hora est sera._ I would like to depart,” she told him.

It was not a request.

“Um _, i-ita_ ,” he stuttered his agreement, taken aback by the sudden insistence.

She was already rising from her seat.

“Fenris? Everything alright?” Hawke inquired from the chair beside his.

Fenris looked up, meeting the mage’s concerned frown through his hair. He lifted a hand, pushing back the tousled strands. He needed to see about having it cut. “Yes, fine. Varania would like to retire.”

Hawke looked to her and back to Fenris. “Listen, Wolf. Come to my house for the night. Both of you. I have the room. You won’t have to bother with cooking and keeping house. Just settle in and become acquainted.”

Fenris considered. The suggestion was sound.

The few rooms he occupied in his stolen mansion were liveable enough, but the rest were derelict. He’d cleaned as best he could; had even prepared a bed in a side room with the least mouldy linen he’d been able to dig from a cupboard, but Hawke’s home would certainly leave a better impression.

“Varania, _audite quaeso_. My friend has offered us lodging in his home. I think—”

“ _Non!_ ”

Fenris blinked, startled by the vehemence. He could tell by the bewilderment on Hawke's face that no knowledge of Tevene was needed to receive that rebuff.

“ _Placere,_ Leto.” Varania sank down in the chair and turned in her seat, all but showing her back to those across her. “In your letters, you spoke of a house. Your own. You said you share it with no one. I have spent all this time with these… _advenae_ ,” she bit out the word like a curse, “but enough. I have travelled far. It is my brother I have come to see.”

Fenris felt chastened. He nodded.

“Thank you, Hawke, but. It would be nice to have some time. Just with my sister. I think… I’ll just take her home.”

Hawke stood. His storm-cloud gaze was narrowed. “I’ll walk you to your door.” Polite enough, but Fenris knew him well. Thunder roiled beneath the words.

“I’ll come too,” Isabela said, smile sharp as her blades.

Fenris’ chest felt tight. He knew how Varania’s behaviour must seem, especially after his own paranoia. He’d asked Hawke for protection and Isabela was simply following his lead.

They didn’t understand. How could they?

They’d all endured their share of hardship, but none of them had ever borne the weight of being owned.

He stood as well. “Thank you, Varric. This was… Thank you.”

The others said their goodbyes, the humour somewhat subdued. As they reached the door, Corff called out from the bar.

“Oi, Miss! You left your bundle!”

Fenris had to take Varania by the hand to get her attention. He thought she’d be relieved at the reminder to reclaim what she’d brought with her from home.

If anything, she seemed eager to leave it behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Aavana_ – a greeting  
> “ _Is est vere ipsum._ ” – “It really is you.”  
> “ _Memores vestri sum._ ” – “I remember you.”  
> “ _Ipse autem salvus._ ” – “He is safe/he means no harm.”  
>  _Benefaris_ – goodbye, (lit) ‘good voyage’  
> “ _Ego miles Isabela_ ” – “I am Captain Isabela.”  
>  _Apologia_ – apology  
>  _Ita_ – yes/assent/agreement  
> “ _In hora est sera_.” – “The hour is late.”  
> “ _Audite quaeso._ – “Please hear this.”  
>  _Advenae_ – strangers/foreigners


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** If you follow me on tumblr you might know that I have kind of, sort of adopted Serendipity from the Blooming Rose as a pseudo-OC. For the purposes of this universe, the character is named ‘Nirien’ and ‘Serendipity’ is his drag queen/sex work persona.

~ Free Marches, City of Kirkwall, Hightown, 11:17 p.m. Tuesday, 7th of Harvestmere, 9:36 Dragon ~

They left Aveline and Donnic at the Keep. The four remaining carried on toward the Chantry and the rundown estate skulking in its shadow.

They passed city guards on patrol; the odd merchant transporting wares. Nothing out of place, nothing extraordinary.

Isabela prattled on about a milliner that used to trade near the Rose and a fabric merchant that would soon be making the rounds from Orlais. Wreath grunted in acknowledgement, not really listening.

Fenris walked a step behind him.

He could feel the elf’s eyes between his shoulders, making his hackles rise. The air felt dense with unspoken accusation.

He had no wish to upset the Tevinter girl, but something didn’t sit right.

With Kirkwall’s thin Veil and so many mages packed into the Gallows, the Fade could rush like a maelstrom, clamouring with whispers of temptation that drowned out all else. This chaos was as perilous as it was a refuge to those who used it to hide, making it harder for templars to sense a lone mage, and for mages to sense each other.

However, there were nights when the ethereal tides would calm and a single point of connection shone through, like a star in the mist.

Wreath drew a breath and opened his mind to the currents of the Fade. Yes, he still sensed it – a snag in the Veil, tugging faintly at the energies beyond.

It could be ascribed to any number of things. A freshly slain corpse, a secreted rune on the ground. Most likely, it marked the pull of another caster’s mana.

The lyrium under Fenris’ skin exerted its own influence, not piercing the Veil so much as slipping beneath. Isabela certainly wasn’t the source, which left only this Varania.

If she were a mage, surely Fenris would have mentioned it.

And if he didn’t know, why hadn’t she told him?

“ _You’re worried Danarius knows?_ ” he’d asked that morning when Fenris first informed him of the woman’s imminent arrival.

“ _The more it seems he doesn’t know, the more certain I become he does._ ”

Fenris’ fears had clearly been allayed, but Wreath was less than satisfied. He had questions and the girl had better answer.

They arrived at Fenris’ home and waited as the elf pulled the key from his coat. Wreath watched the newcomer. She stared at a spot on the ground. Not at her surroundings. Not at her brother.

The Wardens had passed through Kirkwall a handful of times in the years since Carver’s Joining. The sight of his little brother, alive and whole…

Wreath could barely tear his eyes away.

It was true that his experience with the formerly enslaved was limited to Fenris and the child, Orana, whom they’d happened upon while tracking the last pack of hunters the Magister had sent. Wreath had entrusted _her_ to the Chantry.

Still, whatever the history, this woman’s lack of curiosity seemed odd.

All she did was clutch the bundle Corff had held for her, and even that was marked by apathy. The voyage from Minrathous to Kirkwall took three weeks by sea. Wreath was well versed in circumstances that required fleeing with the clothes on one’s back, but if the journey was voluntary, with time to prepare and the aid of a sponsor, why bring so little with which to start a new life?

She wore no jewellery and her clothes were plain, but she didn’t look like she’d been starving.

Surely a tailor would at least pack the tools of her craft, but what she held could contain no more than a change of clothes and maybe some coin.

The lock clicked and Fenris opened the door.

Wreath didn’t wait to be invited.

He brushed past the elf and stepped into the house, mana pooling in his hands.

Darkness greeted him, but he knew where the lamps were. He thought of flame. A path lit before him as he moved through the foyer, into the receiving room and then the large atrium in the style of old Tevinter.

He listened, using his ears as well as the Fade.

All was quiet – save for that niggling pinch in the Veil.

Isabela came up behind him. “Hawke, anything amiss?”

“Maybe,” he muttered. He could hear the girl speaking, her tone agitated. Fenris replied, low and placating as they entered the room. 

“Wolf, I’d like her to clarify a few things. Will you translate?”

He addressed Fenris as he spoke, but he was watching Varania. She was nervous, more on edge now than she’d been when they found her in a Lowtown tavern, surrounded by the scum of Kirkwall.

Fenris crossed his arms. The set of his jaw threatened mutiny. “What do you want to know?”

“That Hadriana-woman said your sister worked for a Magister in Qarinus. When did she leave there?”

“Why does that matter?”

Wreath bit the inside of his cheek to keep a rein on his temper. “Fenris, if I say please, will you ask her?”

The elf’s full lips formed a moue of reluctance, but he did as bid.

Varania had cottoned on that she was to be questioned. Her demeanour verged on panic, eyes flitting between Wreath’s unwavering stare and her brother’s more sympathetic mien.

Fenris said a great deal more than required to relay Wreath’s question, but at last, his sister stammered something in response.

“ _T-tre mensibus, per Solis._ ”

“Three months ago,” Fenris deadpanned in Common.

Wreath’s eyes narrowed. “When did you send your first letter?”

“I don’t know. Five, six months ago?”

He was liking this less by the minute. “What’s in Minrathous? Why did she go there of all places? Ask her.”

Fenris rolled his eyes. His lips parted, but before he could get a word out, Varania clutched his coat, her voice hitching. “ _Placere, Leto…_ ” She gestured, encompassing Hawke and Isabela in the motion.

Fenris seemed chagrined. Each time he tried to speak, her voice rose, drowning him out.

Wreath watched the hysterics drag on, patience fraying.

“Uh, Hawke, maybe we should—” Isabela’s mollifying touch on his arm was the last straw.

He yanked off his glove and let fire surge from his palm. “This! Can she do this? You need to ask her, Fenris!”

The elf stepped back from his sister and turned on him. His scowl was murderous. “ _Venhedis,_ Hawke! Will you just—” He stopped short as Varania grabbed his shoulder, speaking in rapid Tevene, tears welling in her eyes.

Wreath didn’t understand a word, but the shock on Fenris’ face conveyed what was said.

Fenris turned his back on him and spoke to her. His voice shook.

When he turned around, his eyes were luminous with warring emotion. “She says… she says she was going to tell me. That is why she asked to spend time alone. You were an apostate yourself, Hawke. Would you have confessed such a thing in a letter?”

The words were out before Wreath could think to bite them back. “What happened to ‘ _mages can’t be trusted’_?”

Regret was instantaneous, but it was too late. The line had been crossed.

Fenris flinched as if struck. His eyes hardened.

“She’s my sister!”

Three strides and he stood close enough to touch. The scent of lyrium invaded Wreath’s lungs, overwhelming and addictive as ever.

“You said you wouldn’t leave my side unless I asked. I am asking now. Please, Hawke. Just go.”

Wreath swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Alright,” he said. “I’ll go, Fenris.” He turned and began to pull on his glove. “But I’m warding the bloody door.”

He received no retort.

Isabela fell into step beside him. In the time it took them to walk to the foyer, the girl’s sobs had abated. Not irreparably distressed, then.

Wreath pulled his dagger from his belt and set about cutting runes into the doorframe. If he used more force than warranted, the raider had the good sense not to comment. The siegels were simple, taught to him by his father to ward against bears and wild pigs, perhaps the odd bandit or a snooping templar from an ill-equipped Chantry in the sticks.

He prayed that Fenris was right. That he was simply being an arse and his casting wouldn’t be tested.

With a hand on the door, he drew on the Fade, anchoring magic to the carvings. Fire and force. Once done, he called out, telling Fenris to bolt the door behind them.

He didn’t have the energy to see Isabela all the way back to Lowtown and so, he offered her the room Fenris had spurned, relieved when she accepted.

He didn’t want to be alone in his cavernous mansion, left to strew in aimless disquiet.

Bodahn and Sandal were abed, but the fires were lit, casting the house in a friendly glow as they entered.

He left his sword in the study, dragging the thong from his hair as he followed Isabela into the great room. She collapsed into one of the high-backed chairs in front of the hearth. A bottle appeared from the pouch on her belt, displaying the seal of a distillery in Antiva. Her brows arched in question as she gave it a shake.

Despite his mood, Wreath felt a grin tug at his lips. “I’ll get us glasses.”

They drank and they talked. Or rather, Isabela talked while Wreath made attentive noises. After the events of the day, he supposed it was inevitable that the conversation would circle back to one infuriating elf.

“… So you two really never—?”

Wreath stared into the fire. “No. Not after,” he gestured vaguely. “You know.”

Isabela toyed with the coins decorating the hem of one of her scarfs. “Well, at least you got to have a go. He turned me down flat.”

Wreath scowled. “That’s not—You don’t—”

Baring his soul had never been easy for him. Save perhaps to the man who’d seen him at his worst and stayed, who’d held him when he thought his mind would desert him and once, pulled him from the thrall of a demon.

What he felt for Fenris could not be compared to Isabela’s self-confessed ‘sensual curiosity.’

If the elf never welcomed his touch again, he would be content to simply to have him near, but if Fenris decided to take his sister and cast off the City of Chains…

Wreath reached for the dwindling bottle and filled his glass to the brim. He emptied the contents in three swallows, welcoming the burn. It was something to fill the gnawing hollowness behind his sternum.

He couldn’t lose Fenris. Without him, the future didn’t bear contemplating.

* * *

The knock came soon after the dwarven clock in the foyer chimed the third hour.

It was not unusual for ‘the Champion’ to be summoned while the rest of the city slept, but the intrusion was never welcome.

Seated by the fire beside a dozing Isabela, the brandy warm and numbing in his blood, Wreath was sorely tempted to ignore it. That would only lead to the caller seeking out the servants’ quarters and disturbing his retainer, thus he heaved himself up and stumbled to the door.

For once, he was not met by a messenger from the Gallows.

Nirien and Jethann stood huddled on the estate’s front steps, rouged lips parted, kohl-lined eyes wide with awe. Neither were strangers to the opulence of Hightown, often seeing to the personal desires of lords and ladies with homes far grander than his, but Wreath understood their bewilderment. The image they held of him – one he strove to preserve – was of the dog-lord smuggler he had been, playing cards with raiders and sell-swords, tossing back Corff’s signature swill.

It was not that he sought to deceive those from his past. Rather, it was easier to feel like he belonged when those around him believed it to be true.

“Nirien. Jethann,” he said by way of greeting. The cloying scent of floral perfume lodged at the back of his throat as he ushered the pair inside.

“Shouldn’t you have a footman for this?” Nirien remarked.

Wreath shrugged. “Job’s yours if you want it.”

“Oh, you think you can finally afford me, hmm?” the dark-haired elf coquetted, but his eyes darted between the paintings of glowering Amell ancestors flanking the hall.

The two were dressed in simple breeches and tunics, not the silk and lace of their profession. Wreath doubted very much that they’d come for his hospitality, but he considered Nirien a friend. A courtesan of his calibre was used to a certain standard of decorum and Wreath had no wish to discredit the memory of his mother by falling short. He led them to the study, offering each a seat and a drink, before propping himself on the edge of his grandfather’s desk.

“Something I can do for you, gentlemen?”

They shared a look.

Jethann clutched his brandy. “After Nanette. And Idunna. You said to tell you if anything… strange happened.” He looked up through his hair. “I mean, Serendip—uh, Nirien said we should come, but it might be nothing. It’s hardly on par with—”

Beside him, Nirien huffed. “We had some unusual clientele, Hawke. They came in yesterday. Lot of cloak-and-dagger shite. Complete with actual cloaks, if you can believe it. Jethann heard them.” He gestured impatiently. “Go on, sweetie. Just _tell_ him. I know he’s the big bad Champion an’ all, but my honey badger’s bark is worse than his bite.”

Wreath chose to ignore _that_.

“What did they say, Jethann?” he prodded, deliberately gentling his manner. “You’re a smart man. If you think something untoward is going on, I want to hear it.”

He couldn’t help but recall the spirited elf he’d met six years ago and wondered what had changed. Ever since the Qunari debacle, it wasn’t unheard of for an old acquaintance to shrink in his presence. And there was the business with the aforementioned blood mage, of course. Aveline had been on hand to mop up the corpse in the name of the Guard, but Maker only knew what gossip had made the rounds.

Jethann seemed surprised at Wreath’s assessment. He sat a little straighter, frankness shining from his eyes. “That’s just it. I couldn’t understand them. We get clients from Orlais and Antiva. Even Nevarra sometimes. I know what those people sound like, but this lot. They sounded different. I thought—”

“He thought they sounded like your little silver fennec,” Nirien finished. “You know, when he gets all broody and starts muttering to himself.”

The air in Wreath’s lungs turned to ice.

“They spoke Tevene?!”

Jethann jumped at the sudden edge in his voice. “I don’t know! I’ve never heard it before, except, maybe— I just thought they sounded like him?”

Terror twisted through Wreath. He was on his feet, muscles trembling with the urge to act.

Reading his urgency, Nirien rose and laid a hand on his arm. He was Athenril’s cousin, after all. Wreath had been an indentured refugee when they met and, as the elf confided once, men were less intimidating once you’d seen them spend.

“Viveka said they skipped on the bill. The chambermaid went up to collect the pots and all their things were gone. She does the rounds at midnight, Hawke. If I’d known, I would have found a way to get word to you sooner, but it only came up as we were reporting our takings for the night.”

Wreath had stopped listening.

“Arshavir! Come!” he shouted into the house.

Claws clattered on the flagstones as his war hound obeyed. Isabela followed drowsily in his wake.

“Hawke, what—?”

“Go to Aveline!” he snapped. “Tell her to close the port. No vessels in or out. Not even a life raft.” He turned to Nirien. “Go with her!”

Accustomed to the workings of smugglers’ hive, the elf didn’t waste time. He bustled Isabela and Jethann toward the foyer, succinctly answering the raider’s questions while urging her to hurry.

Wreath didn’t see them out. He grabbed his sword from its place by the desk. As he latched the scabbard around his waist, his gaze fell on the stave mounted beside the door. A gift from First Enchanter Orsino, honouring his rise to Champion. It was old. Well-crafted. The focuser honed through decades, if not centuries of use.

It was a fine weapon, one that spoke of the Enchanter’s earnest support, but Wreath wasn’t trained in its use.

Not like Anders and Merrill.

If battle awaited him, he couldn’t afford to fumble.

Sword secured, he left the staff where it was and rushed into the night, Arsha beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " _T-tre mensibus, per Solis_ " – "Three months, during [the month of] Solace."  
> " _Placere, Leto..._ " – "Please, Leto..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Thank you so much to everyone who left comments on the last chapters. Especially Erimies for your insight into my big Chasind son :') You have validated me and for that, I thank you <3
> 
>  **C/W:** The angst is upon us, gentle readers. This is where the 'Abusive Relationships' tag comes in. Nothing overly explicit happens, but if you're familiar with the canon, you know that there's some ugly history about to crop up. Use discretion and be safe!

~Free Marches, City of Kirkwall, derelict mansion in Hightown, 11:33 p.m. Tuesday, 7th of Harvestmere, 9:36 Dragon~

Fenris felt the hum of Hawke’s magic in the wood as he set the bolt. It tingled along the lines of lyrium in his hands. A careful caress.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t repulse.

The reaction varied depending on the mage. Some burned when they cast, like Anders. Others, like the Dalish witch, sent ants crawling under his skin.

He couldn’t know what the effect would be until their spells hit the air, and by then…

His teeth ground together. He pushed his palms to his eyes. He felt unbalanced, as though he’d been plunged under water and didn’t know which way was up. His sister, a mage? Of all the possibilities he’d considered, of all the outcomes he’d turned over and over in his mind, this was the one thing he’d failed to account for.

He thought of the question Hawke had posed. “ _What’s in Minrathous?_ ”

Hadn’t he wondered the same?

There were scores of reasons to venture there. Good reasons. Honest and sound.

It was Tevinter’s capitol, its largest port. Much of the Imperium remained cut off from Thedas, but prejudice and righteousness were trumped by greed, and _Civitas Dracones_ – the City of Dragons – held centuries of wealth in its hoard. It was the only Imperial harbour with regular passage to the Free Marches… and the seat of the most powerful Circle of Magi in the world.

When he returned to the atrium, he found Varania testing the door leading to the former servants’ quarters.

Fenris used only the master suite, the library, the wine cellar and the washroom – the guest room being a recent addition. All other doors with keys had been locked and those without, boarded up. One, even two elves had no use for more space and this left him with only one entrance to guard. Not that he’d had much trouble with intruders. The mansion was known for being haunted, a legend Varric embellished and one Aveline allowed to persist. Besides which, this was Hightown. Superstitious or no, the criminals who operated here were seeking more than an easy mark and a few bottles of wine.

“Varania?”

She jolted, alarmed.

Fenris sighed and pushed his hair from his eyes. Why he kept turning to overbearing Fereldans for aid—

He knew Hawke hadn’t been wrong. Not in principle, at least. Questions remained that required answers, but Fenris had dearly wanted to avoid an interrogation.

“ _Apologia, soror,_ ” he said, testing the familial address in his mouth. “My friend can be… tenacious, but he is a good man. He knows the path I have walked since leaving our homeland and, he only wished—”

“Leto,” she interrupted again. Fenris frowned. He was doing his utmost to remain understanding, but this habit was starting to grate.

If Varania noticed, she was unperturbed. “You have been gone for… many years. Half our lives. I did not know if you lived or if you were dead, and I—” She bit her lip, shaking her head as if denying herself. “You said. In your letter, you said that there is much you do not remember. That you,” her brows drew down, perplexed, “forgot about me. Did you also forget that we shared our mother’s womb, Leto? That you have a twin who entered the world beside you? Because I did not. I have thought of you every day, wondering where you were, wondering why… why you never…”

Her voice was soft, yet there was no missing the iron tang of resentment.

Fenris had been so focussed on his own fears, his own expectations. He’d completely neglected to consider her perspective.

Twins? _Fasta vas_ , she was his _twin?_

“Um, perhaps we should talk in the morning?” he offered. “As you said, you have travelled far and. I am sorry. For… everything.”

She nodded, lips thinned with upset. “ _Ita_. In the morning.”

Fenris managed a brief, stilted tour of the house that consisted of pointing to doors and explaining where each led. He showed her to the bedroom he’d prepared and offered her first use of the washroom, which she declined.

He felt her cast as she lit the lamps Hawke had missed. Her magic seeped into his markings and his breath caught. It was cold as ice.

He closed the door behind him with a bow of respect and ventured to the master suite, his apartment of sorts.

He lit the hearth with flint and kindling and settled on the bed to strip off his boots. His coat and tunic followed. He removed his earrings, laid _Lethendralis_ next to the stack of parchment on the table where he practised his writing, then gathered a candle for light and a clean rag to wash. The floor felt frozen beneath his feet as he trudged to the washroom. When he’d claimed the house, there were remnants of what must have once been luxurious rugs on the floor, but they’d been too frayed and eaten by vermin to salvage.

There had been a time when he was used to feeling the ground unadulterated under his soles – a familiarity he never wished to regain.

The washroom was the last door at the end of the end of the landing, featuring the mansion’s only true comfort, a copper bath with pipes that funnelled water directly into the tub. (It was a far cry from the steaming marble pools scented with roses and jasmine that he’d known in his youth, but this was _his_ and he would trade it for nothing). The plumbing was old, sputtering brown muck when the valve was opened and tinging the water a pale shade of ochre. Still, better than lugging buckets up from the pump in the market.

The walls groaned as water shuddered upward, blasting sporadically into the bath.

According to Free Marcher mores, his daily bathing ritual was a ridiculous excess, but Fenris didn’t care. Before Kirkwall, he’d endured days, sometimes weeks with a film of grime on his skin and the sour stench of his own sweat in his nose. He didn’t understand how anyone could willingly bear such indignity.

He removed the last of his clothes as the tub filled, and tested the water with his fingers. He grimaced. If Hawke were here, he’d heat the water for him. A spark of thought flickered, to go to Varania and ask for her help, but it was quenched before it could kindle.

Fenris bit his lip and lowered his body into the water, telling himself to welcome the sobering chill.

He bathed quickly, abstaining from washing his hair.

He shivered through drying himself and dressing in leggings and shirtsleeves, but he felt refreshed. He was retying the band of red silk he wore around his wrist when he heard it: a short, muffled thump from the bowels of the house.

He froze.

He knew the groans and creaks of every title, every window, every plank in this place. What he’d heard did not belong among those rhythms.

Six years of security dissolved. In that moment, he was no longer safe in his home; he was a feral thing, trapped. His muscles tightened, body shifting in readiness. The thought coalesced in his mind that Varania had been followed. Danarius must have watched her, must have set his dogs on her trail and—

Keeping close to the wall and low to the ground, he crept from the washroom onto the landing. The lamps remained lit, their weak luminescence casting more shadows than light. Varania’s door was open.

Was she inside? Had she been taken?

Why hadn’t he heard?

He didn’t dare call out. He darted to his room – and stopped. Dread knotted his entrails as he stared at the desk by the bed. _Lethendralis_ was gone.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

He considered the window. It was boarded. And three stories up.

He turned and ran to the landing. He grabbed the bannister and vaulted, controlling the fall. He landed in a roll in the centre of the atrium. In the periphery of his vision, he saw the formerly locked servants’ door agape. He was on his feet, dashing toward the receiving room. If he could only make it to the—

Magic flashed.

Escape sealed inches before him.

His momentum carried him forward and he collided with the spell. He cried out, his markings turned to trails of pain as he rebounded against solidified air. He fell, but he did not stay down.

He leapt to his feet, lyrium ablaze, ready to defend.

Varania stood by the door that shouldn’t be open, her hand still outstretched from the casting. She was breathing hard, her eyes wide as though shocked by what she’d done. It was her clothing, however, that crushed the breath from his throat. She was not dressed as _Liberati._ In the place of her simple white garments, were robes of deepest purple, embroidered in gold – the regalia of a Minrathous Circle Apprentice.

A human in armour entered behind her, followed by another. Four in all. No insignia, but he knew who they served.

Fenris felt the change in atmosphere before he saw him.

The memory rose, clear and vivid, of the first time he’d entered this house. He’d thought this man would flee from _him?_

A laugh lodged in his throat.

Whatever he'd believed six years ago, it was the flawed logic of a mind near-mad with solitude and fear, beset by the spectre of a collar that, at times, had seemed more real and vital than the air he pulled into his lungs. Whatever agents the Magister had sent, whatever plan they had concocted in luring him to Kirkwall and into this house, _Altus_ Aelius Danarius had not set foot behind these walls.

Not _then_.

It was the strangest thing to seize on; that small twinge of uncertainty answered, before he buckled beneath the crushing weight of comprehension.

He’d trusted poorly.

One mistake.

And after all these years, after all the hardships and gambles and dogged, bloody-minded persistence, his personal archdemon stood inside his home.

“ _Quo tu nunc currere, lepus?_ ” Danarius purred. Light glinted, catching on an edge of steel as it slid against skin.

Fenris could feel the influx of magic. Not pulled through the Veil, but swelling outward from the Magister himself.

He felt it reaching, pulling at his mind.

His fate was sealing.

He couldn’t fight. He couldn’t run, but…

Once, not long after he’d awakened with the markings, Danarius had shown him the _factum domini_ – deed of ownership – that named him as an asset of his House.

The deed contained his name, his age, a brief description of his use and function; a catalogue of facts, accumulating to an estimated worth in Imperial _tremissi_. Fenris couldn’t read the words, not then, but Danarius had explained their meaning.

His first assigned task had been to learn the lines, to know his place and mould himself to fit it. He remembered the refrain, familiar as a heartbeat.

“ _You are Fenris, property of House Danarius, vernae concubinatus to Altus Aelius Issar, Magister of the Imperial Senate, Counsellor and High Enchanter of the Minrathous Circle of Magi._ ”

_Vernae concubinatus._

Favoured slave and concubine.

He was valuable, worth more than his master’s stables of _servi donum_ and _servi praedium_ combined. And not in gold alone.

For years, he’d told himself that what his master hunted was the lyrium. He’d told others that his _dominus_ would not want him alive, because the alternative – the truth – would have broken his resolve.

He’d come to believe it, even.

Almost.

Yet, face to face with the man who’d made him, he was forced to remember.

To Danarius, he was more than a weapon and a tool. He was the culmination of a dynasty’s worth of knowledge, skill and power; the proof of his superiority over ancestors and kinsmen, allies and enemies alike. If the Magister was Maker in his own eyes, then Fenris was creation.

What Danarius wanted, above all else, was the worshipful adoration of one, truly devout.

Play the part.

Make him believe.

“ _Pax, Magistrum,_ ” Fenris heard himself speak. “ _Veniam ad te._ ”

He felt his knees bend, body folding in submission. Part of him twisted in outrage at the show of weakness, but the rest of him was numb. He could not fight blood magic. Not if he wished to see the end of this, and he realised with a twinge of wonder that he did.

When he’d come to Kirkwall, the prospect of his own demise had stirred only indifference and a bleak determination to make the task of killing him as onerous as possible. The chase had worn him down. Death had seemed a beckoning escape, and when the time came, he would welcome the respite.

He could never have predicted that a chance meeting in Kirkwall’s Alienage would change everything, as if birthing him anew.

Tears sprang to his eyes and he let them fall.

‘ _Maker, let him come. Let him find me. Please…_ ’ His heart cried out his hope, even as his lips blasphemed against it.

“ _Parce mihi, Dominus. Obsecro, eleison_ ,” he begged without shame, the image of subjugation.

The spell thinned, hovering.

There was a rustle of robes, the sound of footsteps drawing nearer.

The sole of a boot pressed down on his nape and he stilled, waiting.

“Nine years, Fenris,” Danarius sneered from above. “Have you any idea what you have cost me? The trouble, the expense? Thankless, insolent…”

With each insult, the boot on the back of his neck grew heavier, pressing into vertebrae, crushing his face against the floor.

“Y—your slave was not himself, _Dominus,_ ” he gasped. “I was confused. Afraid. I—I forgot my place. Please, _iterum me docent!_ ”

A painful grind of leather and then the boot withdrew. A fist closed in his hair, wrenching him onto his knees.

He expected to be struck, but foresight did not dull the impact as the back of Danarius’ hand collided with his face. The ruby adorning his signet ring sliced into Fenris’ cheek, sending blood dripping down his jaw.

Danarius withdrew as if releasing something filthy.

“Heal him!” he snapped. “I do not want him ruined if that scars.”

It was Varania who obeyed. Her movements were halting, her gaze oblique as she pushed magic into his flesh, coaxing his body into knitting the wound.

Fenris stared at the floor, fearful of what his countenance might betray if their eyes should meet.

Varania shuffled back and Danarius’ bloodied ring filled his vision. “Thank me.”

Fenris bowed his head and pressed his lips against the jewel. “Thank you, _Dominus._ You are gracious. _Enim benevolentia_.”

The hand did not retract and he nuzzled into it, kissing Danarius’ skin. The bones beneath were more pronounced than he remembered, the Magister’s flesh cold and pale against his lips.

He let a moan drift up, soft and breathless, and felt fingers slide into his hair.

“ _Cicaro dulcis mihi_ ,” Danarius murmured and Fenris’ lashes fluttered.

He kept his hands between his knees, furtively working on the knot that held the red silk around his wrist in place. It loosened, slipped and he let it flutter to the tiles.

Hawke would find it. Hawke would know and he would come.

Fenris could only pray that he wouldn’t be too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, quick rant before the Latin. I know that the new comic says Fenris can just phase his whole body through anything with zero adverse effects.
> 
> Ages and ages ago, when I was reading promo material to decide if I should buy this game, I distinctly remember Fenris having a blurb that said he could only phase his hands and, should he ever manage to phase the rest of him, he’d die. Reason being, he needs to keep part of himself in the real world to phase back, plus his vital organs need to remain corporeal for him to, you know, live. Personally, I thought that was clever, because it added a check and a balance to his powers, while also giving credence to his fear of being captured.
> 
> I know we’ve since had DAI where the Fade is a timeshare destination, but seriously, think about. If he can just phase through anything, he could do a Mirio and just… keep phasing until he popped out where he wanted to be. He would have nothing to fear from any opponent ever, because he’s literally untouchable.
> 
> So yes, I am aware that the Council has made a decision, but since it’s fucking stupid when applied retroactively to Fenris' arc, I’m choosing to ignore it. For the purposes of this 'verse, Fenris can phase his hands and that’s it. It’s useful, but he’s still vulnerable and therefore, interesting.
> 
> “ _Quo tu nunc currere, lepus?_ – “Where will you run now, rabbit?”  
> “ _Pax, Magistrum_.” – “Peace, my Lord.”  
> " _Veniam ad te_." – "I surrender [to your way]." Basically, "I will do what you whatever you want."  
> “ _Obsecro, eleison_.” – “Please, show mercy.”  
> “ _... iterum me docent_.” – “…teach me again.”  
> “ _Enim benevolentia_.” – “Greatly benevolent.”  
> “ _Cicaro dulcis mihi_.” – “My sweet pet.” Note: _cicaro_ has a number of translations, including costly/beloved/wanton. He's covering a lot of bases with this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Thanks to everyone for reading and sticking with this. I was hoping to have this whole thing up by New Year, but at least we're in the home stretch :')
> 
> This features a reference to the red favour and my own headcanon for how Fenris ends up wearing it. If anyone's interested, it's all covered in [Signatum In Sanguinem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430593), which was recently rewritten, so I'm not ashamed to plug it :P

~Free Marches, City of Kirkwall, Hightown, 3:12 a.m. Wednesday, 8th of Harvestmere, 9:36 Dragon~

Wreath sprinted up the stairs leading from the Chantry to the residential quarter. He turned the corner and headed straight toward the weathered timber barring the entrance to Fenris’ house. He slammed a palm against the wood. It didn’t budge. His spells remained intact, the door still bolted from within.

Hope flickered as he rapped their agreed-upon code against the panelling and waited. The hour was late, but sound carried through the old, empty halls. The elf would wake; he would open the door. He would scowl and berate Wreath for intruding and all would be well.

Time seemed to slow, his senses sharpening as he listened.

He heard nothing.

“Fenris!” he shouted, foregoing the code to simply bang a fist against the wood. “If this door isn’t open by the count of ten, I’m blasting it off the hinges.”

He counted. No response came.

Beside him, Arsha growled. The Mabari crouched close to the flagstone and sniffed along the seam of the door. With a vicious snarl, he turned and bolted, cantering around the corner of the building. Wreath followed at a run.

The dog came to a halt in a passage behind the mansion. It was more of a small courtyard, with walls spaced wide enough for a beast-drawn cart to be steered. Long ago, when this place retained a full household, this would have been the area where deliveries were received.

Wreath’s eyes fell on what had once been the servants’ entrance. He felt his heart stop. His vision swam as he took in the sight of gaping darkness where a locked, bolted door should have stood.

Arsha growled, hackles taut. Wreath gave the signal to wait and drew his sword, creeping closer.

The house was dark as pitch. He heard nothing, save for the ticks of an old structure settling and the scurrying of rats. The Veil flowed around him, undisturbed.

He slapped his thigh and Arsha followed. He raised a hand, channelling mana to illuminate the way. The passage smelled of mould and ruin. Cobwebs reached from the ceiling. Scores of tiny eyes glittered along the beams as dust motes drifted, thick as fog, in the magical light. The air was foul with decay, but it was the swelling fear behind his ribs that made it hard to breathe.

They emerged in the atrium. The lamps had been doused, or so he thought until he tried to light them and found no oil left to burn.

“Fenris?!” he called out.

Arsha barked, claws clattering up the stairs toward the bedrooms.

Wreath sheathed his weapon with fingers that shook and pulled off a glove. Fire gathered in his palm. As the light crawled across the floor, a smear of crimson caught his eye.

Sweat trickled down his spine. Heart thudding in his throat, he stepped closer and bent to inspect it.

Not blood.

Red silk.

“ _You never told me the significance of this_ ,” he’d said once as he helped Fenris tie it.

The elf had paused. Light fluttered through his markings, the only indication of the unanticipated weight behind the question.

“ _Uh, never mind,”_ he’d retracted quickly. “ _Didn’t mean to pry._ ”

Fenris had looked up at him, then.

Most elves had pretty eyes, Isabela was right about that, but on the rare occasion that Fenris met his gaze and held it, Wreath never failed to be struck by the jewellike facets of the other man’s regard.

“ _I want to remember what you did. In that alley, with the Carta._ ” The elf’s gaze slid to the side. “ _That bolt. I know it was meant for me, but you,”_ his throat clicked as he swallowed, “ _you very nearly died. For me. I… want to remember._ ”

The confession had stunned him. “ _That was— I don’t want you to think you owe me anything, Wolf. There is no debt between us. You’ve saved my life more times than I can count, and—_ ”

“ _Hawke, I know,_ ” Fenris cut him short. “ _That is why I wear it._ ”

Helplessness drove him to his knees. He felt sick with it as flashes stuttered through his mind, of his father, bleeding, bleeding until the ground frothed red around him. Of an ogre’s roar and Bethany’s broken scream. The corruption of the taint, flowing black and deadly under Carver’s skin. The scent of lilies, the stench of the sewer, a gore-stained marriage gown…

“Oh, Maker!”

Grief pressed into his heart with an edge that felt too real. The Fade churned around him, shimmering at the fringes of his consciousness. He could feel the claustrophobic throng as demons swarmed to lap at his anguish, but even the threat of possession seemed a distant, trifling thing.

He heard the scrape of claws, followed by gentle jostling as Arsha pushed against him, whining softly. The hound’s large head butted against his shoulder and Wreath released the flame, darkness descending as he wrapped an arm around the dog and buried his face in dense, coarse fur.

For the first time in thirty years of life, he regretted his lack of a Circle education. So much power within reach, yet even if he could use it to find Fenris – his friend, his only lover, the man he _loved_ – he had no idea where to begin. All he knew was that the elf was gone. Taken. Back to Tevinter and the Andraste-cursed _Maleficar_ he’d feared above death.

Wreath clutched the slip of silk until his fingers ached, holding on as if a tight enough grip might pull the other back to him.

The thought stirred an inkling. Something his father had said.

He’d been young, barely come into his mana.

A treasured toy, damaged beyond use.

“ _Be careful of sentiment, boy. Hold a thing too dear and memories will cling. Such ties will not serve you._ ”

Memories.

Ties.

What if…

He channelled mana and rose, jaw tight as he stared at the piece of fabric amidst the bluish glow. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He couldn’t give up, he had to _try_.

Decision made, Wreath slapped his leg twice in a wordless command to follow and hurried back the way he’d come, Arsha at his heels.

Rushing toward the Chantry steps, he almost collided with Isabela, who – thank the Maker – knew a shortcut to the docks.

There was no ferry to Gallows in the hour before dawn.

Wreath was weighing the pros and cons of swimming across when Isabela pointed to a crew of men on the pier, unloading cargo from a sloop with no colours. There was only one reason to offload a vessel at this hour, confirmed by the susurrus of blades leaving sheathes as they approached.

“Easy, Martin!” Isabela cried. “It’s just us.”

The raider’s gnarled face was covered by a headsquare, but his silhouette was distinctive, even in the light of the moon. “Isabela? What’re you—”

“The Kirkwall Guard marches,” Wreath spoke quickly. “Every shield in the Keep is about to swarm these docks and I’ll wager you don’t want them opening those crates. Me? I don’t give a rat’s arse what you’re smuggling, but I’ll pay you fifty sovereigns for passage on this ship.”

“He’s good for it,” Isabela vouched into the stunned silence that followed.

After the drawing of lots and a brief altercation, a few men remained ashore to see to said crates, while the rest hoisted the sails. The night was clear. Wind blew in from the east and soon they were sailing for the Gallows.

Wreath stood at the prow with a hand in Arsha’s fur. The Mabari had been uneasy around boats since their crossing from Ferelden, but he’d walked on board without a fuss.

“We’ll find him. Don’t you worry,” Wreath assured, trying to bolster himself as much as the hound. His muscles twitched with unspent tension as he willed the ship to move faster, watching the great edifice rise, like a dragon’s fang above the waves. He tried not dwell on the failures of his past, but it was impossible not to wonder.

Had the Magister come in person?

It was hard to imagine Fenris being taken by mere mercenaries, and without leaving any carnage behind. Not unless the hunters had gotten hold of Varania and threatened to harm her, or…

Wreath felt a muscle tick at his temple and forced his jaw to unclench.

Whatever his suspicions, whatever he’d thought of the woman, he hoped to the Void she wasn’t complicit.

For Fenris’ sake.

As he stepped from the longboat onto the quay, Wreath was thrust back to the first time he’d made this journey with full knowledge of his heading.

Not as Champion.

Not as the newly ascended scion of the Amells.

Just an apostate refugee with more daring than sense. He’d come to see the mage, Tiberius, about an old letter addressed to his father. Garbed in a tatty gambeson, sword at his hip, he’d been as mundane and untouched by the Fade as he could himself seem, yet his heart had perched in his throat for the duration. Like one condemned, awaiting the noose’s embrace.

This was worse.

“Wait for me,” he instructed the men who’d done the rowing.

As he scaled the steps, a templar came to meet him. She was young, vaguely familiar. Wreath recognised her as a recruit he’d spoken to years ago. Her name escaped him, but he vividly remembered her impassioned defence of Meredith’s tactics, even in the face of doubt from her peers.

“Hail Champion,” she greeted, distaste clear in her voice.

“Who oversees your shift?” Wreath demanded bluntly. He had no patience for quibbling with a novice, but it seemed an unavoidable course. The chit was a slip of a thing, yet there was no fear in her, making her appear more formidable than her form.

She held her ground. “What business have you—”

“The Knight-Captain is on duty, Messere,” a masculine voice rang out.

Wreath looked past the girl to see Ser Thrask approaching from the gatehouse.

Never in his life had the sight of a templar inspired such elation.

He left the woman where she stood, her indigent protest trailing in his wake as he hastened toward the other man.

“Ser Thrask! I must see the First Enchanter, it is a matter of utmost urgency.”

Thrask’s brows rose in consternation. “I’m sorry, Champion. Only those assigned to guard the Circle after curfew may enter the tower. You should speak to Knight-Captain Cullen. He can authorise a summons.”

Wreath swallowed a scream. He told himself that it was better than Meredith, at least.

“Take me to him.”

Thrask led him through the gate and across the square. They were headed for the Knight-Captain’s office in the barracks, but the impromptu arrival of the Champion had caused a stir and the man in question met them en route.

“Champion,” Cullen greeted, offering a fist-to-shoulder salute as he approached.

“Ser Cullen.” Wreath dipped in a very slight bow. “I need an audience with the First Enchanter.”

Apparently, the Knight-Captain’s courtesy had been exhausted. He crossed his arms. “He is asleep. Return when the sun is in the sky.”

It required every ounce of Wreath’s control not grab the bastard and shake him. “If that were an option, Knight-Captain, I would not be here _now_.”

“What is so urgent that it cannot wait?”

Wreath had no wish to explain himself to a man who’d told him to his face that his kind were less than people, but he had no choice. He had to get this prig’s cooperation, or he’d get nowhere.

“A citizen of Kirkwall has been taken by at least one known _Maleficar_. I must intercept them before irreparable harm is inflicted, but I don’t know their route. The First Enchanter may be able to assist. Therefore, I must speak with him. Immediately.”

“And who is this citizen?”

Wreath had had enough. He stepped closer until they stood nearly chest to chest. The Knight-Captain was no small man by any measure, but Wreath had a few inches on him. He used each one to full advantage, forcing the templar’s head to tilt to hold his gaze.

“You pull children from their mothers, yet I have your runners at my door at all hours, demanding aid against the blood mages and demon dealers you’re afraid to stand against. You come to me, even as your Knight-Commander sullies my name with those same charges, as she calls for my imprisonment and the sundering of my mind, yet I do not question. I do not argue. I do what must be done to serve the people of this city. Is it so outrageous to expect your Order to at least _pretend_ to share this aim?”

Cullen’s nostrils flared. His eyes were bloodshot, overbright against the deep shadows underneath.

He did not retreat, but Wreath knew how much it pained him to be indebted to an apostate.

“Paxley!” he barked, still holding Wreath’s stare. “My office. Now!”

It was a tense, agitated affair, but with a scrawled signature and a seal of wax, young Paxley was sent to collect Orsino, while Wreath was left to wait with Thrask in the hallway. He’d expected Cullen to insist on being present when he met with the Enchanter, but he was not about to snub good fortune by questioning the man.

It took longer than he’d hoped, though less time than he’d feared for Orsino to arrive. The ever immaculate elf was dressed in a wrinkled nightshirt, his hair unkempt. Wreath watched the lines in his face ease as he saw him.

“Champion, you’re here!” The surprise in his voice was evident. No doubt the poor man thought he was being marched to his death. Or worse.

Wreath stepped forward. This time, his bow of respect was heartfelt.

“I need your help, Enchanter.”

Orsino showed him to his own office and closed the door, none too gently, on the templars.

“Now then, how can I assist.”

Wreath explained the sequence of events as succinctly as he could, struggling to strain the despair from his voice.

“I have this,” he said, holding out the scrap of red cloth. “It is important. A… symbol of the bond we share.”

Orsino frowned in thought, though he did not reach to take it.

“Your reasoning is not unfounded, Champion. There are ways to extract knowledge from such an item, but… I only know a little of the theory. Not enough to attempt a spell, and even if I did.” He shook his head. “It requires lyrium and liaising with a spirit. Meredith will barely allow my healers to conduct their work, and then only under strictest supervision, after a petition has been considered and approved.” His lips parted as if to say more, yet he seemed to hesitate.

“Enchanter, if you have _any_ insights—”

“I— Please forgive me, Champion, but you clearly care for this young man. Would I be mistaken to infer that you have, uh… been intimate with him?”

Wreath felt heat crawl up his collar. Deciding to give the other man the benefit of the doubt, he answered. “You would not. Be mistaken, that is.” He grimaced. “Only once, however. And that was years ago.”

Orsino drew a breath. “Then we may have hope.”

Wreath’s heart seized at the words. “How so?”

Orsino cleared his throat. “Believe me, I truly have no desire to trespass upon your personal affairs, but I must ask. When you, uh. At the culmination of the act. Did you— That is to say, did he receive your, um—”

Wreath choked on air. “Why is _that_ relevant, Enchanter?”

“You are a mage. As mana is carried in the blood, so too is it borne in… other fluids. If he took your, uh, _essence_ , it may have forged a geas. If so, I can help you.”

Wreath’s discomfiture evaporated. “Yes, alright? Yes! What do you need, what must I do?”

Orsino gestured as if to calm an over-eager youth. “All I require, are a few drops of your blood.”

Wreath stilled. “Blood? You mean—”

The elf looked suddenly old, every one of his years showing in the lines on his face. “Yes, Champion. It is precisely what you think, but this particular application is sanctioned by the Chantry. You are familiar with phylacteries, yes? Their use in tracking mages is well-known, but this aspect of their value is… less publicised, if you will?

“If it became public knowledge, there would be a great deal of outrage, which the Order and the Chantry would prefer not to contend with, not to mention a loss of leverage. Setting politics aside, though, the transference of mana is a fascinating, albeit undervalued field of inquiry, that I—”

Wreath put up a hand to forestall the flow of information. “Enchanter, if we could save the lecture for another time.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Suffice to say, even if a mage is able to conceal their own location, using the aid of demons for example, any mundane lovers they have taken will be traceable. Apostate women have an advantage, since the transference is less potent. However, in this instance, circumstances have conspired for the better.” He showed Wreath to a door leading from the study. “Come, lad. Let us not delay.”

Wreath stuffed Fenris’ memento back in his pocket and followed the Enchanter to a cluttered little laboratory.

He pulled out his own dagger, focussing on the mechanics and not the implications of what he was about to do. “You can heal this?”

He wasn’t keen to injure a hand, not with battle looming.

“Er, I have little aptitude for healing,” Orsino admitted. “But only a small cut is needed. For that, my skills should suffice and if not, I keep a stock of regenerative draughts in my desk.”

Wreath nodded. He bit down on the tip of a finger and pulled off his glove with his teeth. Steadying his grip, he dragged the blade along the base of his thumb.

Orsino set a ceramic bowl down before him and he tipped his palm, watching a trickle of crimson drip into the vessel.

He told himself that didn’t matter if the Circle had his blood. He’d been forced to submit a phylactery to Val Royeaux after being made Champion – a compromise with the Chantry to let him carry on as before.

Still, the sight of his blood in that bowl did not sit well.

He thought of what his father had done in the Vimmark Mountains to escape with his mother.

If this was the price he paid to find Fenris, he could consider it a bargain.

“That should do it,” Orsino said. He took Wreath’s hand in his and healed the cut.

Pulling on his glove, Wreath watched as the Enchanter took a decanter of clear liquid from a shelf, followed by two sheaths of powder from a drawer. He added the contents of each to the bowl and leaned slightly back. The mixture bubbled at the edges, the centre swirling of its own accord. It seemed to thicken as it moved. Eddies of blue and white shimmered on the surface.

Orsino nodded and picked up the bowl. “I have a map in my study. Let us see if this works.”

There, he gave it to Wreath to hold and pulled out one of the scrolls from a cubby behind his desk. He set it on the surface to unroll, revealing the lines that represented the boundaries of Kirkwall’s territory.

“You said he was taken from Hightown?” the Enchanter confirmed, taking the bowl.

Wreath nodded. “Near the Chantry.”

The bowl tipped, pouring out a good spoon-full on the banner marking the Cathedral. Wreath felt the ripple in the Veil as the elf pulled magic from beyond.

At once, the liquid glowed red, hissing like the quench of newly shaped steel in the forge. Tendrils separated from the larger stain, running along the delineations of Kirkwall’s streets. A blazing stream surged quickly across Lowtown and the docks, crossing squiggles of water to the Gallows, where it pooled.

“That would be you,” Orsino said. “A geas is always weaker, but if one exists, it should— _there_ , look!”

Wreath leaned in. A tiny offshoot, no more substantial than a hair, was slowly crawling northward, heading for Merchant’s Gate. It followed the raised causeway that forked eastward to merge with the road to Ostwick, and north-west toward…

“The Wounded Coast?” he muttered.

He stared at the map, mind working to reconcile ink on parchment with the terrain he knew. They couldn’t possibly mean to travel to Tevinter over land. Not with the Minater River and the mountains to contend with. After Kirkwall, the closest thing to a port was a small fishing village halfway to Nevarra. With no stops or interruptions, it was an eight-day journey. A ridiculous risk with a prisoner like Fenris. Unless—

“Smuggler’s Cut,” Wreath blurted.

Orsino looked at him askance. “What?”

“Smuggler’s Cut!” Wreath repeated. “It’s an inlet in the cliffs. No sand bank, so the ocean is deep enough for a ship to moor. And it’s the one spot on the coast where the shore isn’t cut off by jutting rocks. Half a day’s walk from Kirkwall at a brisk pace, a full day if you’re lugging cargo. That _has_ to be where they’re going!”

If he was right, and he felt as confident as he could be, his quarry had a substantial lead overland. There was no way he could catch up on foot, but with a strong tailwind, it was less than an hour’s voyage by sea.

He clapped the older mage on the shoulder. “Many thanks, Enchanter. I must hurry!”

Trusting Orsino to clean up the spell, he burst into the hallway. Paxley stood in wait, but Thrask had gone.

He paid the young templar no mind and set off at a jog.

He found Thrask in the courtyard of the barracks, along with the Knight-Captain and a number of others.

“Hold Champion!” Trask called.

Wreath gnashed his teeth. “I have no time to waste, templar! The Enchanter gave me what I need and—”

An older man stepped forward, a contemporary of Emeric’s. “You are an apostate young Hawke, son of Malcolm. Yet you have not withheld your aid from us when asked. Thrask says you are to face a _Maleficar._ ” He looked to Cullen. “I know this Order failed to give heed to my colleague when he sought to bring Gascard du Puis to account. But not all of us have forgotten our oath.”

Wreath couldn’t hide his shock when the Knight-Captain nodded. “You will have our aid, Champion.”

Wreath thought it over. He’d fought blood mages before and prevailed. Even the odd demon. For all Malcolm Hawke’s faults, he’d trained his son to see his mana as a gift, not a curse to be feared. That steadfast belief had served him against the mad and the desperate who fled Kirkwall’s Circle, but he’d never stood alone against a Magister of Minrathous who held his heart in his fist.

“Fine,” he bit out. “But you will follow my lead.”

The sailors were less than thrilled to row a bunch of sun-shields across to their flagless vessel with its hull full of contraband, but a glower from Wreath had them biting their tongues.

Isabela knew the heading – “I’m insulted that you have to ask. I can navigate this route in my sleep, Hawke!” – and the wind was with them.

As dawn streaked across the horizon, Wreath leapt from the longboat, ruining his good boots as he trudged through the shallows to the beach. They’d come ashore a mile from their destination to avoid being spotted, but he could just make out the rise of a mast against the stone of the cliffs.

Isabela followed, along with Arshavir and the templars. As they walked from the surf, Wreath took her arm. “You should stay here and keep a lookout. Both of you,” he added with a glance at the dog.

Isabela wrenched free, affronted. “He’s my friend too, Hawke!”

Wreath stared down at her. “Can you break a blood-thrall?” he demanded bluntly. “I don’t know what I’ll be facing, but I have to assume—” He stopped, swallowing bile at the thought. 

“Just stay here. _Please_ , Bela. I can’t defend against you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone @s me, I know Chapter 2 talked about Nirien seeing Hawke come and now he’s calling Fenris his only lover. I have a Hawke/Nirien fic in my WIP folder, set during Hawke’s year in indentured service, that explains it. Suffice it to say, those two things are not mutually exclusive.
> 
> The whole 'mana transference' headcanon is from KJ Charles' [Charm of Magpies](https://www.goodreads.com/series/105370-a-charm-of-magpies) series. Highly recommend if you like m/m fantasy.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Main plot finished, only the epilogue to go! Thank you so much to everyone who stuck with it this far, especially if you left a kudos or a comment. That helps to cure my anxiety for days ^_^ As always, Tevene translations are in the end-note.
> 
>  **C/W:** This chapter has some vague references to past sexual abuse. Please be safe.

~Free Marches, City of Kirkwall, small courtyard in Hightown, 12:09 a.m. Wednesday, 8th of Harvestmere, 9:36 Dragon~

More men, probably mercenaries, waited outside on horseback. Fenris was led to a closed carriage, drawn by two pairs. There was no driver, but a postillion, garbed in all black, mounted one of the nearside beasts.

Fenris was made to sit beside Danarius; Varania perched across. The Magister ordered the shutters closed, blocking his view of the scenery beyond. He tried to track the change in surroundings by the roll of the wheels, turning smoothly over Hightown’s flagstone before changing to a shuddering clatter over the cobbles of the merchant road.

Mercifully, Danarius didn’t seem inclined to interrogate him about his life in Kirkwall. He spoke to Varania, chatting about casting techniques and schools of magic as though they were taking a leisurely ride around one of his estates. Varania was subdued, but she participated well enough to avoid offending her mentor.

To Fenris, the world felt muffled and grey around the edges, distant as a dream.

There was talk of a waiting ship, the promise – threat – of a shared cabin.

His master instructed him to rest his head in his lap and he obeyed. Fingers carded through his hair, commenting on the length, waxing prose about the colour, a promise to dress him in garments “ _befitting his beauty_.”

Funny how that comment rankled.

These were _his_ clothes, commissioned by him and paid for with coin he’d earned. They were fine quality and fit him well, but of course, that was not Danarius’ concern. Even in only leggings and shirtsleeves, Fenris was dressed as a free man, not the willing spoils of Arlathan the Magister desired.

Fenris knew the benignity would not last. For the moment, Danarius was basking in his victory, but soon, he would remember his slave’s defiance. And when he did…

“ _Gratia ago tibi, Dominus_ _._ You are kind to your slave,” he murmured.

Empty words, because it was what his master wished to hear.

Fenris felt nothing. Even the markings, so quick to spark and shine with his moods since coming to Kirkwall, lay dormant. All that remained was hollow resignation and a flutter of self-loathing at how easily he’d slipped into old patterns. No better than a tamed pet unable to resist the call of its training.

He reminded himself that fighting was pointless. He couldn’t win. Not alone against a Magister and a squadron of soldiers, but he could bide his time. If he resisted, if he so much as flinched, Danarius would bind him with demons and blood, trap his mind in the Fade and carry his body back to Minrathous where not even the Maker could save him.

Time passed.

He must have drifted, because when he opened his eyes, light filtered weakly through the shutters. Danarius’ hand lay slack upon his shoulder. Across from him, Varania dozed, features pinched, eyes shifting beneath their lids as she dreamed.

Fenris still couldn’t see beyond the interior of the carriage, but by the grind of the wheels, he surmised that they were travelling on sand. The Wounded Coast, then?

Still within the ambit of Hawke’s reach, but for how much longer?

If Danarius had a ship waiting, it couldn’t be far.

He’d asked Hawke to leave last night. The mage would probably think it courteous to keep his distance for a day, perhaps two. Even if the human’s mulish nature got the better of him and he knocked on Fenris’ door within the hour, would he grow suspicious when no one answered, or would he simply assume he was unwelcome? And when Hawke did find him gone, how would he begin to guess where to search?

Fenris exhaled, breath shaking.

If worse came to worst, he would find a way onto the deck of Danarius’ ship and fling himself into the waves.

“… _Did you ever think about killing yourself?_ ”

The question, asked as Anders sat bent over a tankard Varric had paid for, rose to mock him and he closed his eyes. His own response, near arrogant in his conviction, might well have come from a different man.

_“I did not. To kill oneself is a sin in the eyes of the Maker.”_

_“You... believe that?”_

The mage’s scepticism had not been unfounded, but Fenris hadn’t lied, not then.

_“I try to. Some things must be worse than slavery.”_

“ _Some things are worse than death.”_

Finally, he and the Abomination had something to agree on.

* * *

It happened between heartbeats.

His only warning was the hum in his markings as the Fade enveloped the conveyance.

He sat upright, watching wood splinter.

Suddenly, the sky was overhead, the stuffiness of the coach replaced with a whipping zephyr and the scent of brine as the enclosing structures crumpled, tearing away with a deafening crack.

Bits of debris hovered around his face, suspended in the currents of coagulating air.

There were more men on horses than he’d seen when he’d climbed aboard the carriage. Others must have joined them on the road. He caught a mercenary’s incredulous gape; the sight of the postillion clinging to his mount. The horses shrieked, lurching against their harnesses. What remained of the carriage swerved as the animals fought their bonds to flee, and Fenris moved with the momentum.

He hit the ground hard, but didn’t dare stop to catch his breath.

He scrambled up and ran.

An eerie sense of repetition overtook him. He recalled the sheeting rain, the dark, earthy scent of jungle-soil and blood. That night, so long ago, with the Seheron rebels who’d fought to protect him lying dead and scattered by his hand, he’d run to get away.

This time, he was running _toward_.

He followed the flow of magic, guided by the thrum of lyrium beneath his skin more so than any other sense. The sand of the coastal path slipped beneath his feet, but being barefoot helped and he knew this ground, had fought many a scrimmage on this terrain and won.

He scaled a dune, only to find a wall of rocks jutting into his path.

His body jerked as spellwork coiled around him. The markings blazed and he choked back a cry as he felt himself pulled upward. The swirl of mana made the air impossible to breathe. Sand and twigs swarmed in stinging volleys, forcing him to close his eyes. He was helpless, aching, choking.

A bruising grip reached through the chaos, closing on his arm, yanking him onto the ridge of a stony outcrop.

As abruptly as it started, the churn of magic vanished. Fenris stumbled, falling against a familiar wall of human strength.

He couldn’t help himself. He clung to Hawke, shaking like a child – the boy he’d been, years ago, when he had no one to reach for. Hawke’s arms enfolded him and for the first time in hours, the ground felt sure beneath his feet.

A gloved hand cupped his face, tilting his chin up. A thumb stroked along the smear of dried blood on his cheek. “Are you injured?”

Fenris shook his head.

Hawke searched his face. “Are you with me?”

It took two tries to find his voice. “Yes,” he managed.

The mage gave a sharp nod.

It was only then that Fenris registered the feel of velvet beneath his fingers. Not mail, not plating. Hawke was still dressed in last night’s finery.

He’d come. And he hadn’t stopped to don his armour.

Fenris blinked, eyes burning. ‘ _From the dust,_ ’ he told himself.

“Your whore?” A sneering voice intruded and he realized that Hawke was not alone. The speaker was a templar with a Fereldan accent that he did not recognise. The Knight-Captain stood behind him, exuding exasperation. Thrask was there, as well as a few others Fenris didn’t know by name.

“No need for such language, Carroll,” Cullen admonished. He looked to Hawke. “Really, Champion? ‘A citizen of Kirkwall?’ You spoke of _Maleficarum_.” He gestured to the scene below where horses whinnied and humans shouted. “Where are they? I’ll have you know, these men are shirking other duties to be here. I won’t have you treating the Order like some band of lackeys at your personal beck and—”

Hawke veered on the templar. “Shut up, Rutherford!” he snarled. “I’ve done your job for _years_ , yet you have the gall to stand here and whine at me like a runt-bitch, while—”

“Hawke!” Fenris interjected.

Danarius had regained his equilibrium. He could all but feel the lash of his master’s anger on the wind.

Danarius was not a young man, yet there was something preternatural in the grace with which he moved. He climbed the dune, barely stooped. Two of his guards flanked him.

He strolled to the foot of the outcrop and glanced up, hand raised to shield his eyes against the sun.

“ _Avana,_ ” the Magister greeted. His voice barely rose, the tone of an honoured guest arriving at a gathering of peers. “I confess, I was not expecting to have my journey disrupted with such vigour, but we have not been introduced. I am _Altus_ Aelius Issar, head of House Danarius, Magister of the Imperial Senate and High Enchanter of the Circle of Minrathous _._ My apprentice tells me you are the Champion of Kirkwall. Impressive. And a son of the Amells? Do you know your city’s history, Champion of Kirkwall?”

“Is he bloody serious?” Fenris heard Hawke mutter, half-surprised that he could hear anything above the thud of his own pulse.

“Archon Vanarius Issar was a great ancestor of mine,” Danarius continued, accent lilting in his lecturing voice. “His daughter married a son of Magister Emerius Krayvan, and their daughter was in turn betrothed to the heir of Magister Thalassian Amelius, your great forebearer. This is of course how your kin came to settle in fair Emerius, now the city you hail from. We have ancestry in common. There is no need for hostility.”

Silence lingered. Fenris held his breath.

At last, Hawke spoke. “You have been misinformed.” His voice rang deep and rough, a near bestial rumble. “My name is Hawke. My father hailed from the Korcari Chasind of Ferelden. I am a son of Flemeth, a remnant of the horde that sacked ‘fair Emerius’ and much of your Blight-taken empire. And there is every need for hostility, since you _abducted my friend!”_ The last reverberated like a crack of thunder. The air grew heavy with the scent of petrichor as lightning skittered up Hawke’s arms.

Danarius smirked. “Do I detect a note of jealousy? It is not surprising. The lad is… rather _skilled_ , isn’t he?”

There was no mistaking his meaning. Fenris could not care less what these templars assumed about his relationship with Hawke, but he’d never wanted Hawke to know the full extent of his service to his master.

He felt himself trembling. An emotion too large to name burned along the markings as a scream clawed up his throat. “He needs to _die!_ ”

The outburst jarred him. He had never raised his voice to this man, but once the wall had cracked there was no stoppering the outpour.

“I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius, but I will relish using them to kill you!”

The Magister’s gaze flicked to him and Fenris saw his end in that stare. Danarius might well choose to preserve his body, but he’d boasted of methods to obliterate a mind.

The _Altus_ had the temerity to laugh. “Oh, how little you know, _lepus_. And such petulance,” he tsked. “You were nothing but affection a moment ago, the sweet little pet I remember so fondly. Come now, _cicaro_ , let us not waste the Champion’s time.” He looked to Hawke. “I implore you as a fellow mage, return my property to me and we shall depart. No need for bloodshed. I shall even compensate you for the trouble of minding him in my absence.”

Rage was a haze of red across Fenris’ vision. “Shut your mouth, Danarius!” he snarled, taking a step toward the edge.

The mask of benevolence slipped. “ _Quod verbum ‘Dominus’ est_ _!_ ” the Magister bit out in Tevene.

Fenris saw the gleam of a blade slide from Danarius’ sleeve. He lurched a step back, lips parted to shout a warning.

Hawke was faster. His casting struck like a whip, snatching the knife from the Magister’s hold and flinging it away.

Fenris felt the clash of mana as Hawke and Danarius both reached for the Fade.

Then, there was the sense of cloth drawn taut and the swell of magic… vanished.

A parched emptiness filled the air. His markings ached with the tingling throb of a limb losing blood. He felt faint with it. His vision blurred, yet he was able to glimpse the consternation on Danarius’ face in the moment before malice contorted his features.

“ _Neco illis!_ ” the Magister screamed, retreating as his men advanced.

The templars stood with hands stretched before them, features set in concentration, eyes unseeing.

“Hold fast!” Hawke yelled. “He’s trying to pull something through. If he succeeds, we all die. Hold fast!”

“Maker preserve us!” Cullen husked. “I can—I can _feel_ it!”

“Hold fast!” Hawke shouted again.

He drew his sword and began striding toward the slope on the side of the rise to head off Danarius’ guards. His face was ashen, his pupils shrunk to pinpricks. If Fenris felt unsteady, he could only imagine what this was doing to a mage.

His own hand went to his hip. He grimaced.

“Hawke, I need a weapon!”

The mage swerved and grabbed for the sword of the nearest templar, which happened to be Carroll. The man made a sound of protest, clutching Hawke’s wrist.

Hawke grit his teeth. “Don’t make me hit you.”

“Carroll!” Cullen snarled.

The templar’s face was a rictus of hate, but his hand retracted.

Hawke pulled the sword and tossed it at Fenris. He caught it, testing its balance. It was not _Lethendralis_ , but it would do.

“Champion!” Thrask rasped. The tendons in his neck stood out. Sweat beaded on his brow. He shifted his shoulder as if under great strain and swung his shield from his back. “Take this!”

Hawke did so with a nod of thanks and continued his advance.

Fenris walked to a stout young man of Rivaini blood. “If I may?” he said, not waiting for a reply as he helped himself to a hand axe. Trying to activate the markings achieved only pain, but this would bite through armour well enough.

Danarius’ men were so foolish as to attack without waiting for their fellows to join. There’d been a time when the sight of Fenris – the Silver Wolf, _Lupus Argentea,_ as had been his moniker among the Senate – would have sent mere _Soporati_ running, but nine years was a long time. These men were not unskilled, yet the sand thwarted their footing and their strategy was lacking. They were decked in plating, but all that was needed was an inch of vital skin.

Hawke used the shield and sheer brute force to send a man careening. A pommel strike had his helmet flying. With an arc of the blade, his head followed suit.

Fenris used every ounce of speed and skill at his command. He parried the guard’s strikes with his sword, pressing in. Once he knew the blow would land, he kicked with all his strength. A bare foot did little damage against a steel-clad thigh, but as the guard braced, he ducked low and swung the axe.

In keeping with tradition, these men wore no plating on the back – a means of discouraging retreat, but in close combat it left one vulnerable. The axe head sank through the leather of his boot and bit into the tendon at his heel. He screamed. Fenris danced away, avoiding clumsy swings as the guard’s leg collapsed beneath him.

Hawke came up from behind. He gripped the downed man’s visor, forced his neck to arch and slit his throat. A kick between the shoulders sent him sprawling, gurgling death into the sand.

“How many?” Hawke barked, gaze on the dune.

“I didn’t get a full count,” Fenris told him. “At least a dozen. Probably more.”

“Shit,” Hawke cursed.

Fenris grimaced in agreement. Without Hawke’s magic, without his markings, the odds weren’t in their favour.

Hawke’s throat worked. He set the shield down and pulled the chain holding his parents’ marriage bands from his shirt. He brought the rings to his lips. “Seat me at your side in death. One within your glory,” he recited.

He picked up the shield, raised his sword and stepped forward.

As he moved, a Mabari war howl rose on the wind.

They looked at each other, Fenris in question, Hawke seeming caught between ire and relief.

Sounds of fighting rose from below and they broke into a run.

Fenris was first to reach the dune. His mouth fell open at the sight that met his eyes. Isabela. Martin the Raider. Four-Teeth Fritz and a mob of other seadogs he knew from Diamond Back at Varric’s.

Hawke caught up with him. “I told you to stay by the boat!” he shouted down into the fray.

“You say that as if I’d ever take orders from you!” Isabela yelled back, laugher in her voice as she feigned right and lunged left, aim unerring. Her dagger sliced through the seam of a mercenary’s gambeson, disappearing to the hilt. She yanked it free and the man stumbled, curling in the sand as she moved on to the next.

Hawke shook his head, but he was grinning as he rushed toward the fight.

Fenris looked to the outcropping. Some of the templars had dropped to their knees, but the Veil remained as a pond in winter.

He caught movement along the shoreline. Danarius was several hundred yards down the beach, Arshavir snarling and lunging at him. The hound snapped at his robes, herding him away from his men, but he wasn’t biting, wasn’t breaking skin.

Without his own blood flowing, Danarius could not bind his will to the spillage on the ground. Fenris could hear him shouting, calling for someone to bring him a dagger, but all were occupied in the melee. There was no trace of Varania.

He decided to contend with her later. For the moment, he had mercenaries to kill.

With all their efforts combined, victory was quick in coming.

Further down the beach, the Mabari barked and howled, calling his allies to the final prize.

The Magister was on the ground before the dog.

Fenris dropped his weapons in the sand, striding closer. Not to fight, just to see.

The pirates kept their distance. Hawke advanced and Fenris saw what he’d never thought to behold: Danarius, kneeling and afraid.

Satisfied with Hawke’s approach, Arshavir came bounding up, tail stub wiggling as he butted his head against Fenris’ chest and whined. He laid a hand on the beast’s massive skull in thanks, but his eyes were on its master.

Hawke was panting, teeth gritted in a snarl. His hair flowed loose, clinging to his face, streaked with the sweat of battle and the blood of his opponents. His blade dripped red. He raised Thrask’s shield and the flaming sword of Andraste, emblem of the White Divine, caught the sun.

“ _Ipse est magnifico_ _,_ ” Fenris thought aloud.

Hawke laughed, low and cruel. “You want to cut yourself?” he taunted. He flung the shield aside and reached for his dagger. “Here!”

Danarius hesitated. His eyes, glowing tarnished yellow, swept to Fenris. He lunged for it.

Casting was an act of will and Hawke’s was stronger than any mage Fenris had encountered. As a life-long apostate with no formal training, his repertoire was limited to instinct and inclination.

Truthfully, however, he needed nothing more.

He had a knack for disrupting the spells of others, wrenching the flow of magic from their grasp and dissipating it, unformed. This was how he’d prevailed against blood mages in the past, forcing them to draw on their own lifeforce until they succumbed to their own folly.

Fenris had wondered why they didn’t revert to traditional spells, but Anders, in a rare show of civility, had explained that the more a mage drew on life itself, the more difficult it became to shape the forces of the Fade.

With the Veil hardened, the power in Danarius’ blood called out to the lyrium, bright and wrong. If he closed his eyes, Fenris thought he would see the afterimage of the casting in the darkness. He felt it shape, felt it surge.

Hawke’s will thrust outward, slamming into the spell like a battering ram.

Danarius staggered bodily. Blood trickled from his nose.

“Care to try again?” Hawke sneered.

Severed from the Fade, cut from his demons, Danarius did.

Fenris felt the moment the Magister’s mana ran dry. As did the others. The templars’ focus collapsed, reality itself reverberating with the release.

His markings glowed and Fenris moved.

Danarius had crumpled. Blood leaked from his nose, his ears, his eyes. Grotesque tears, trailing down his face as he stared into the face of judgment.

Fenris reached down and gripped him by the throat. With a strength born of rage and hate and pain, he raised him up.

“You… are no longer… my master!” he gritted out, speaking in the language of the Prophet. He would not send him to the Void with the tongue of Tevinter in his ears.

He reached into the Fade.

Danarius gasped, writhing weakly. Fenris felt the wet pulse of organs, the flutter of life, and crushed it in his grip.

The body spasmed, suddenly heavy and Fenris let it drop.

Panting, he stepped back and stared.

Danarius was dead.

He flinched as Hawke called flame onto the corpse. He retreated further, hand above his eyes.

It was no gesture of respect, he knew. Not in keeping with any Andrastian rite. Danarius had been a _Maleficar,_ bound to demons by mana and blood _._ Hawke was simply ensuring that nothing remained to possess, should anything bleed through the once-more porous Veil.

The impromptu pyre was hot on his face, the reek of cooking flesh enough to turn his stomach.

Again, his past blurred across the present.

In Minrathous, there’d been a special punishment reserved for slaves who dared to run. Men were paid. The guilty were captured and dragged, screaming, back to the Magister’s gleaming _palacia._

Danarius would have crosses erected in the open gardens where condemned _fugitivi_ were nailed, disembowelled and set alight while they lived. He would sip wine from his vineyard and sigh as their flesh blistered and boiled, blackening to ash. 

Sometimes, he led Fenris to the edge of the flames and instructed him to watch, so close that the heat parched the moisture from his eyes, singing his ever-sheer garments.

Danarius would hold him in the circle of his arms. A kiss pressed to his temple, a honeyed murmur in his ear. “ _I know you will never run from me, sweet_ _fen-rís…”_

Revulsion slithered under his skin and he turned away, taking stock of the scene.

Horses stood in scattered groups along the beach. The Mabari sat beside him, panting and apparently content.

The templars were clambering through the sand.

The men who’d accompanied his mast— ‘ _the Magister_ ,’ he corrected himself, lay strewn and still as the raiders picked through the corpses. Most were mercenaries, wearing the colours of a lesser-known Antivan guild. The four who’d entered his home to take him bore no insignia, but one had carried a banner with the crest of Danarius’ House.

Hawke stood beside him. He could feel the Fade crackle with the mage’s wrath, not yet sated.

Hawke turned his sights on the vessel moored by the cliffs. “That ship was his?”

“So he said,” Fenris confirmed.

An instant later, the sky burst open, pouring forth fire and fulguration. The vessel erupted like so much kindling. He couldn’t hear the screams above the roar of flame, but he could see the shapes of burning bodies, tumbling into the surf like shooting embers.

Colour in the periphery of his vision had him glancing up. His gaze settled on red-gold hair and the indigo robes of a Minrathous Circle apprentice. Fenris found himself moving, stalking, limbs reacting quicker than thoughts could form. The pain of betrayal loomed, black and empty, threatening to swallow him whole.

Along the far-slope of the dune, rocks protruded to form a cluster. Varania was half-crouched behind a boulder, cowering and small. Every inch the _rattus_ of Imperial scorn.

“ _Placere, Leto_. _Et hoc modo electionis est mihi_ ,” she begged as he reached her, voice tremulous with fear.

“Stop calling me that!” he spat at her in Common.

She didn’t know the language, but that much she understood. “ _Paenitet_ , _Let_ —Fenris,” she corrected. “Y—you have _no idea_. No idea what we’ve been through, what I’ve had to do since mother died. You said you didn’t ask for this, but that’s not true! You _wanted_ it, you _competed_ for it. And when you won you used your master’s boon to have Mother and I freed.”

He’d been so sure nothing she did, nothing she said could shock him again, but her words were knives, cutting into him. “Why are you telling me this?” he choked.

“Freedom was no boon.” She didn’t shout, but bitterness lent power to her voice. “This was my only chance!”

The markings throbbed. He stepped closer. His heart felt torn behind his ribs, and he let the pieces flow into his words. “I would have given you _everything_.”

Her eyes widened, she tried to retreat, backing into stone.

Her gaze flitted past his shoulder. “ _Obsecro ira eius!_ ” she screamed.

He felt the mage’s presence before the hand closed on his shoulder.

“Don’t kill her, Wolf.”

The markings held their glow.

“What is she to me other than one more tool of the Magisters?”

Hawke pressed closer. His grip tightened. “This is your _family_.”

He knew what that word meant to Hawke, knew the weight it carried in his mouth. He’d seen Varric – always jovial and collected – shaking with fratricidal rage as he surveyed his brother’s madness, and watched Hawke talk him down as well. “ _The blood of kin sticks differently. You don’t want that on your hands._ ” Fenris’d had no way to understand his meaning at the time, but now, he thought he might.

The markings stilled. He dropped his hand. “ _Discere_ ,” he hissed through his teeth and turned away. He stepped free of Hawke grip and the mage let him go.

“ _Gratia, Magistrum. Multorum gratia_ ,” Varania fawned. He heard her moving, probably trying to kneel.

“You misunderstand,” he heard Hawke sneer, cold fury dripping from every syllable. “My concern is for _his_ well-being, not _your_ survival. If it is refuge you seek, speak to the Knight-Captain. I’m sure he’ll make room in the Gallows.”

Fenris was unsure how much Varania understood, though her silence said that she realised aid from the Champion would not be forthcoming. Hawke had never relegated another mage to Kirkwall’s beleaguered Circle before. Not even when the likely alternative was a slow death from the elements and starvation.

Fenris might have been taken aback, had he not been so utterly spent.

“There’s a longboat waiting about a mile down the beach. Martin has a ship that’ll take us back to Kirkwall,” Hawke said, matter-of-fact.

He did not try to offer comfort. Fenris couldn’t bear it if he did and yet, part of him yearned to curl into the mage’s embrace and sink into oblivious exhaustion.

He heard the crunch of sand and turned to see the templar, Thrask approaching.

“It seems all are dead, except for a few horses and this woman, Champion.”

“She is an apostate from Tevinter,” Hawke said, more weary than agitated. “I don’t care what you do with her, but if you wish to take her alive, you’re walking her back. She’ll not set foot on my boat.”

With that, he turned and started walking.

Fenris sighed, raked his hair back from his eyes, and followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned at the start that much of Fenris’ perspective is based on my friend’s fic, ‘[Libertatem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13943751).’ The flashback to Dan’s treatment of his escaped slaves is entirely hers. Seriously, read this fic. It’s awesome.
> 
> “ _Gratia ago tibi, Dominus._ ” – “I am grateful, Master.”  
>  _Lepus_ – rabbit  
>  _Cicaro_ – pet/wanton/expensive/treasure  
> “ _Quod verbum ‘Dominus’ est!_ ” – “The word is, ‘Master’!”  
> “ _Neco illis!_ ” — “Kill them!”  
> “ _Ipse est magnifico._ ” – “He is magnificent.”  
> “ _Placere, Leto. Et hoc modo electionis est mihi._ ” – “Please, Leto. I had no other choice.”  
> “ _Paenitet._ ” – “I’m sorry.”  
> “ _Obsecro ira eius!_ ” – “Please stop him!”  
> “ _Discere._ ” – “Go/be gone.”  
> “ _Gratia, Magistrum. Multorum gratia._ ” – “Thank you, my Lord. Many thanks.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Well this is it, gentle readers. Final chapter is posted ^_^ Again, special thanks to everyone who commented and left a kudos on this story. Words can't say how much that means. If you're in the US, I hope you're keeping safe.

~Free Marches, The Wounded Coast, sometime after sunrise. Wednesday, 8th of Harvestmere, 9:36 Dragon~

With Fenris safe and accounted for, Arshavir’s aversion to seafaring resurfaced with a vengeance. He sat planted a few feet from the water’s edge, looking between the longboat and the nice, dry, not-undulating path beyond the dunes, eyes sad and ears flat against his head. Wreath coaxed, wheedled and commanded, but it was only when Fenris pushed past with a terse, “Come hound,” and waded into the shallows that the Mabari deigned to follow.

Back on the ship, Wreath offered his thanks to Martin for his crew’s aid against the Magister’s men, only to be bluntly informed that, “Isabela said we don’t see no gold if ye snuff it.”

Hmm. Fair enough.

He made a note to go see Varric about settling with the crusty blighter as soon as he’d had some sleep. He wondered if news had reached the dwarf about the night’s events, in which case Varric would likely seek him out first.

He found Fenris seated on the deck with his back to the side. Isabela had discovered his sword on one of the dead Tevinter guards and returned it to him. He sat cross-legged with the sheathed blade balanced across his knees. Asha was curled up next to him and Wreath settled into the opposite spot. He longed to put an arm around the elf, but he refrained.

“You’re coming home with _me_. Don’t argue,” he said, putting as much command into his voice as he dared, which was less than his usual manner.

There was no reply, but he took the lack of refusal for acquiescence.

Wreath felt… shaken, thrown off balance by the encounter with the Magister. The bastard’s lecture about “ _common ancestry_ ” had disturbed him more than he cared to admit.

If even a word of it was true, a millennium had passed since the Kirkwall Amells had laid any claim to Imperial roots. The family legend only went back four hundred years, to the Fourth Blight and their great ancestor’s alliance with the Dalish hero, Garahel.

Wreath had liked that version.

Question was, what did Fenris make of it all?

Whatever his own views on the matter, the fact remained that the elf, ever wary of the Fade-touched, had even less cause to trust a mage than he did before. His own sister had done nothing but confirm his worst fears about their kind.

For nearly six years, Fenris had stayed.

Last night seemed long ago in the harsh light of the morning, yet the qualms Wreath had nursed over brandy regarding his place in the other man’s life, rose anew.

With nothing to run from, without need of protection, would Fenris choose to remain with a mage, and a human one at that?

The only incentive Wreath had to offer was his tattered heart and, knowing what the elf had suffered, it seemed a rather paltry recompense.

* * *

Back at the house, Bodahn treated their return with the same unflappable competence as ever. He didn’t ask where they’d been, why Fenris was half-dressed and barefoot or how Hawke’s finery had got into such a state. His gaze swept them both, simply inquiring if any wounds needed dressing – “No,” thank the Maker – and whether Messere would prefer to take luncheon before or after his bath. A hint if ever Wreath had heard one.

He left the choice to Fenris.

The elf declined both food and the washroom, asking only for a bed. He closed the guestroom door behind him and Wreath quashed the urge to hover. With nothing else to do, he went upstairs and set about washing the stench of panic and battle from his skin. Once clean, he sat down to a bowl of stew and the herbal tea his mother had poured down his throat as a child. The bath and the food helped to calm his nerves, but despite his exhaustion, he remained too restless to sleep.

Varric did indeed make an appearance, ruffled with worry and accompanied by Aveline.

“Shit, Hawke,” he said, stabbing blunt fingers into his hair, dragging yet more strands from the thong. “You couldn’t take me down to the bar and say, ‘Hey Varric, just so you know, we think the pretty little redheaded might be working for the guy who put the spines on our resident porcupine of angst.’ Andraste’s tits! I could tell something was off, but I thought she was just… you know.” He gestured in the direction of the guest room.

Elvish.

Tevinter.

Fenris’ relation.

All of the above.

Wreath stifled a yawn. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time, Varric.”

“There’d better not be a bloody next time,” Aveline put in. “The Seneschal is frothing at the mouth over last night’s ‘unsanctioned raid.’”

“If he gives you trouble, send him to me,” Wreath offered.

“Oh, I can handle Bran,” Aveline assured. “You have enough on your plate, I’m sure.” She too turned her eyes towards the guestroom. “How is he?”

“He’s not on a ship to Tevinter. Other than that,” Wreath shrugged his ignorance.

* * *

The following morning saw him around the breakfast table with a freshly bathed elf.

Fenris still seemed pensive, but he was closer to his usual self, eating neatly and asking messy questions.

“…I suppose I shall have to go to the Rose and give Nirien my thanks.” His nose crinkled on the name of the brothel. Given what Wreath had come to understand about slavery and the operation of such places in Tevinter, his distaste was understandable.

Fenris scraped butter on his bread. “Though, even with his warning, that still does not explain how you knew to lay in ambush at that precise location on the Wounded Coast.”

Wreath shifted in his chair.

Revealing how he’d managed to plot Danarius’ route went about as well as could be expected.

Fenris’ expression moved from bewildered, to embarrassed, to indignant in the span of a moment. Then, “Do you think… Danarius, do you think that was how he _—_ ” He shook his head and glanced away, clutching his cutlery. “Forget it. It does not matter any longer.”

Wreath felt as if he’d been disembowelled. He was not experienced in such things, but neither was he naïve. A man like the Magister would not own a slave who looked like Fenris simply to have him act as a guard. The bastard had all but declared as much before the battle, yet to hear it from the elf’s own lips…

Wreath felt inept.

Should he apologise for what he’d disclosed to Orsino? It would be disingenuous, since there’d been no other option and he would do so again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping Fenris from harm.

Danarius had died more cleanly than he deserved. If circumstances allowed, he would have preferred to take him time. Just his dagger. No spells needed. The Magister’s death would have been hours in coming, but would saying as much offer any sort of succour?

“I’m glad you’re safe,” was all he could think to say.

Fenris nodded, gracing him with the ghost of a smile. He looked at his plate, eyes overbright. “I… don’t know how to thank you, Hawke.”

“No thanks needed,” Wreath said briskly, voice rough around the lump in his throat. “Just, next time I offer my guest quarters, maybe don’t argue, hmm? My good boots are ruined.”

That got him a laugh. Fenris glanced up, eyes still shining, but the tension was gone from his beautiful face. “Then my honour shall not be appeased until I buy you a new pair.”

* * *

Over a week had passed since that last shared meal.

The elf had returned to his own home shortly after. Wreath had gone with him to set new wards and to help board up the old servant’s entrance. Though, other than reports from Isabela, Aveline and even Merrill, he’d let Fenris be.

That pattern was about to break. A missive had arrived from the Gallows, the contents of which could not be conveyed second-hand.

He rapped the code on the front door and turned the lock with the key Fenris had entrusted to him years ago. He was a tad surprised to find it unbolted, but the implication was encouraging.

Fenris was in his chambers, pacing in front of the hearth.

As ever, he was dressed in all black, though Wreath couldn’t help but notice the earrings he’d presented him with during last year’s Satinalia feast, paired with the necklace and wolf pendant from the year before that.

As he stepped through the door, he received a verdant once-over. Fenris’ mouth was a moue of displeasure as he turned his back, muttering in Tevene.

Wreath stopped. Maker, had he already heard?

“Am I supposed to understand that?” he ventured, cautious.

Fenris veered, eyes flashing. “It means, ‘you will be the death of me’!”

Wreath frowned, unsettled. “And you’ve drawn that conclusion, because?”

Fenris resumed his pacing, gesturing vigorously as he spoke.

“Six years ago, I decided to stay with you, in part because I owed you for your aid against hunters. I also thought you could help me. And you did!” the words flew from his lips like an accusation. “Hadriana is dead, Danarius is dead. I am finally free.” Confusion flitted across his gaze as if the very concept of emancipation baffled him, but he caught himself. “Yet none of it feels like it should. This _freedom_ tastes like ashes!”

Wreath blinked. “Do you… want an apology?” he tried, unable to keep the edge of sarcasm from his voice.

Fenris crossed his arms, glaring at him from underneath his overlong fringe. Wreath wouldn’t dare say that he was pouting, but his thoughts were his own.

“Don’t try to make me sound unreasonable, Hawke,” the elf growled.

Wreath swallowed a chuckle. “You’re doing a fine job of that yourself. I didn’t tell you to do any of that, remember?” Except staying. He had asked… told him to stay, though he wasn’t bringing that up now.

Fenris huffed. “And yet you led me, each step of the way,” but his ire had gone.

The defensive posture dropped, arms falling to his sides. He drew a breath and pushed his hair from his eyes. “You are not responsible for my misery,” he told the hearth. “Why am I angry at you?” He glanced up. “Did you come here for a reason, Hawke?”

Wreath sobered. He arched a brow, gesturing to the wingback chairs arranged around a crate that served as a cards table. Fenris nodded and they sat, staring at each other.

Wreath cleared his throat. “I came to tell you, I received word from the Gallows. Varania faced her Harrowing. She, er. She didn’t pass. I’m sorry.”

Green eyes widened. Fenris slumped slightly, shoulders drawing inward. He stared at a spot on the wall. “So she succumbed to temptation? I cannot say that is unprecedented.”

Wreath licked his lips. He had borne losses aplenty, but he’d rarely been in a position to console. “She was your sister. Whatever happened, it’s understandable if you feel—”

“Feel what?” Fenris challenged. “Grief? Regret? What I lost was a figment of my own imagination. What I hoped to find in Qarinus didn’t exist, nor am this ‘Leto’ she remembered. She was a stranger to me as much as I was to her. There is nothing to grieve, but expectations. And as for regret.” He sighed. “Yes, I regret contacting her. I regret that she is dead, but… so is Danarius.”

He pronounced the fact of the Magister’s death like a conundrum to be solved, rather than a victory achieved. He bit his lip, shifting in his seat. His hands were clasped between his knees, gaze on the floor as he spoke. “I thought… I don’t know. I suppose I had hoped that finding Varania would open up a new world. One I thought had been lost forever, but,” his hands turned, palms up, “it is gone, and I cannot get it back. What do I do now, Hawke?”

The question caught him off guard, not least because he’d just been scolded for overexerting his influence.

“What do you _want_ to do?” he deflected.

Fenris straightened, rolling his shoulders as if to dispel tension. He looked to Wreath, features soft with self-deprecation. He huffed a laugh. “Clearly, making decisions for myself is not my best quality.”

Wreath studied him. “You thought killing him would solve everything, but it doesn’t.”

Fenris shook his head. “I suppose not.” He looked lost, younger than his years. “I thought if I didn’t need to run and fight to stay alive, I would finally be able to live as a free man does, but how is that? My sister is gone and I have nothing, not even an enemy.”

Wreath considered his next words. His impulse was to remind him of Isabela and Varric and Aveline, of Donnic and Nirien, Carver when he visited; Void, even Merrill and Anders on good days. He wanted to take him by the shoulders and cry, ‘ _You have me!’_ but he’d never seen the elf this vulnerable, certainly not voluntarily.

“Maybe, that just means there’s nothing holding you back?” he ventured.

Fenris was quiet, lips pursed in thought. He looked down at his hands and anguish gripped his countenance. “You didn’t hear what Varania said.” He held out his arms. “She told me I _wanted_ these. That I _fought_ for them. Danarius offered them as a reward and I _reached_ for it.” He swallowed, breathing slightly hard. “It makes me feel… unclean. As if this magic isn’t only etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul.”

Wreath stared. “Listen, Wolf,” he began. He couldn’t guess whether his next words were the right thing to say, but he’d rather have the elf angry at him than lost in self-hate. “I’m not claiming to know what you’ve been through. I never have, but let me ask you this.” He leaned forward. “Where would you be without them, eh? Guarding some Magister’s estate? Working his fields? Surely your life here in Kirkwall isn’t _that_ much worse. And if you must bear them, is it not better to know that they were a choice you made for yourself, rather than one Danarius inflicted?”

That seemed to bring the other up short. He sat with lips parted, eyes beseeching, though for what Wreath wasn’t sure.

Fenris had shown his hurts, his insecurity. All he could think to do was offer the same.

“When I was twelve, my father sent me off to my Harrowing with a Dalish Keeper who barely spoke a word of Common. He didn’t explain what was to happen, nor the consequences of failure, because he reasoned that if I was afraid, the odds of success would be lessened.” His shoulders lifted as if to cast off the weight of the revelation. “I passed. What could have happened doesn’t matter. My father had two other children and my mother to consider, as well as himself. He had to be sure that I could manage temptation and control my mana, lest I endanger the rest of the family, a need made all the more pressing given our status. Anders would call it an unforgivable act of betrayal, but—”

“Don’t compare me to him!” Fenris protested.

Wreath exhaled. “I’m not comparing anything, Wolf. I’m just saying, some things… simply _are_. It does no good to rail against the past, what we’ve lost. It may be unfair, it may be devastating, but what’s the use of stewing in anger if it robs us of whatever joy remains to be found?”

Fenris regarded him dubiously. “You’re angry all the time.”

Wreath threw his hands up. “People are very annoying. And you’re missing the point. You can keep dwelling on the markings and everything that sack of shit took from you, or you can take heart in the knowledge that his bones are fodder for the scavengers of the Wounded Coast. You are _free_ , Fenris. No more looking over your shoulder, no more hiding. That’s more than any mage in Thedas can say and no, I’m not trying to turn this into a mage-plight conversation. Just, what you have, it’s enviable to many. Don’t allow a dead man to add your future to the past he stole.”

Fenris bit his lip. “Perhaps it is time to leave this hatred behind.” He shook his head, brows knitted. “But I don’t know how. It is… difficult to overlook the stain magic has left on my life. If I seem bitter it is not without cause.”

Wreath frowned. “You’re still blaming magic for everything?”

Fenris glanced up through his hair. “Think about it, Hawke,” he said. A thread of irritation weaved through his voice. “Look at what happened to your mother, the life you’ve had to lead. Is there anyone touched by magic who actually benefits?”

Wreath could dredge up surviving the Blight, the many who had their lives thanks to Anders’ healing, even the simple exhilaration of seeing fire manifest in the hearth because he’d willed it, but they were talking in Circles. “Is that all you want to do? Dwell on the negative?”

Fenris’ eyes rounded in affront. He straightened in his chair. “No! Of course not, I—” Wreath arched a brow. “Well, alright, yes. Fair enough.”

The concession was… unexpected. Wreath hid his surprise.

“Blaming magic isn’t the answer,” he said, as though reciting by rote.

Fenris held his gaze. “For every mage such as you, Hawke, there are a dozen more too weak to handle their power. Them, I fear, as should you, as should anyone.”

Wreath stared back. He hated the Gallows. He hated the memory of his father dying on templar swords and he hated the threat of Tranquillity Meredith Stannard dangled over his head. However, after all these years in Kirkwall, with its thin Veil and constant temptation, after Idunna and Taronhe; Gascrad and Quintin; Hadriana and Danarius; the boy, Feynriel…

Merrill was slipping further down a path of ruin with each passing day and Anders’ control over Justice hadn’t improved, despite hours of meditation and discussion and encouragement. Even Bethany had seemed to wrestle with her power more than Wreath ever had.

Denying Fenris’ words would be hypocrisy.

It left a bitter tang in his mouth, but he made himself speak. “You make a good point.”

Fenris nodded.

Oddly, it felt as though a consensus had been reached.

The elf perched an elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his temple against his fist. “I do want to move forward, Hawke. I just… don’t know where that leads. Do you?”

Wreath set his ankle on his knee and leaned back. “No one can predict the future, Fenris. Least of all me. This can change as much or as little about your life as you choose. It’s up to you.”

‘ _I want you to stay_ ,’ he thought, but to say so seemed boorish, even for him.

Fenris’ lashes drew down in thought. “The future of a slave is never uncertain. But I am no longer a slave. Perhaps it is time I remembered that.” He grinned as he spoke.

Wreath knew he was being baited, but he didn’t care. “About time you realized that.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed, but he was laughing. “Been waiting have you?”

“I have, in fact.” More seriously, he added, “You don’t have to make all your decisions right now, you know? Give yourself some time. There will be days when you feel like you have everything figured out and days when nothing makes sense. I remember what it was like when we first came here, when I was made Champion. Even if all I can offer is a supportive ear, I’m happy to do that.”

The corner of Fenris’ mouth tilted upward, dimpling his cheek. There was something wistful in his stare, or perhaps, calculating. “Charitable of you, offering to listen to me whine.”

“You don’t whine. And even if you felt like it, I’d still listen.”

“What if I wanted _you_ to talk?”

Wreath had said a great deal during this visit, though, admittedly, that was not his habit. “I… could do that. You wouldn’t know this obviously, but I talked to Bethany all the time.”

“About magic?”

“Yes. And boys,” he confessed, because it was true. “She liked the big, strapping farmhands and I liked—” He remembered who he was talking to. Fenris was watching him, eyes half-lidded. The fingers of his free hand toyed with the pendant at his clavicle. “Uh, never mind.”

The elf grinned. “You liked _what_ , Hawke?”

Oh Maker, what had he gotten himself into. He felt heat crawl up his face. “You know,” he shrugged, gesturing vaguely.

“Elves?” Fenris ventured.

“Pretty, slender boys.” Wreath corrected quickly. “I didn’t fixate on race. That would be,” he shrugged again, embarrassed.

“Oh, well, as long as I’m still in with a chance.”

His breath caught, not daring to hope. “Are you… jesting?”

The elf dropped the pendant. He sat up, spine straight, hands in his lap. There was no laughter in his voice. “We never discussed what happened between us two years ago.”

Closer to three. Wreath had the anniversary marked in his mind.

“You didn’t want to talk about it,” he said, carefully neutral.

The ease was gone from Fenris’ bearing. In its place was the air of one facing a jury. His gaze made it up to Wreath’s chest only to skitter away, falling to the floor between his boots.

“I felt like a fool. I thought it would be better if you hated me. I deserved no less.”

He couldn’t let that stand. “Wolf, I could never—”

“But you _didn’t_ ,” Fenris spoke over him. “And it isn’t better.” He pushed up from his chair, stepping closer. “If I have been difficult, I am sorry.”

Wreath set both feet on the floor, willing him closer still.

“That night,” Fenris went on. “I remember your touch as if it were yesterday. I should have asked your forgiveness long ago. I hope you can forgive me now.”

Wreath wanted to assure him that there was nothing to forgive, but he had to know. “I need to understand why you left, Fenris.”

Fenris closed his eyes. He drew a breath. “I’ve thought about the answer a thousand times. The magic, the memories it brought up. It was too much.” He shook his head, eyes blazing green fire. “I was a coward. If I could go back, I would stay. Tell you how I felt.”

Wreath felt breathless. “What would you have said?”

Fenris’ gaze flicked to his mouth. “That nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you.”

“I understand,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’ve always understood.”

Fenris crossed the last of the distance separating them. He set his hands on the arms of the chair. Their breath mingled and Wreath felt a stirring in his loins.

“If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly at your side.”

Wreath reached for him. Fenris’ hair was silk in his hands as he crushed their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to apologise to everyone who was hoping for smut :') It's basically written, but I've decided to post it as a separate fic. It just didn't fit after all the emotional back and forth, plus it seemed fitting to conclude with the kiss.
> 
> Also, I hope it comes across in the fic, but when Hawke asks Fenris where he would be without the markings, he's not condescending to him. He's literally using the same rationalisation he applies to his own life after fleeing Lothering and losing pretty much everything he knew. This is his own mantra, ' _Yeah, fleeing the Blight sucked, but would ten more years of eking out an existence on the edge of the Wilds, through droughts and templar raids, have been that much better than trying to save this hell-mouth of a city from itself?_ ' ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> If anyone is interested in more of Wreath's not-at-all-dysfunctional life before Kirkwall, '[Blessed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3899359)' and '[Spirit Touched](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27398893)' give glimpses of his relationship with Leandra and some of my headcanons on how Chasind magic works.
> 
> These are recent rewrites. I'm slowly going through the process of revising all my old fic, but these I'm happy to plug ^_^


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